Metamorphome
by Morvana Du'Miruvor
Summary: Hermione and Draco are forced to guard Voldemort's favorite for the Order. Their friendship grows while they teach the way of Light to a woman so lost it might be impossible to turn her. Christmas, love, introspection and memory...enough? Rated for lang.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: This is based off J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. I own nothing save for the new plot and original characters. 

** Chapter One: Betraying the Steadfast**

* * *

Dusk. 

Pink light illuminated little in the forest, but upon the large plateau-like hill it surrounded, everything was either pink light or purple shadow. Upon the hill sat an enormous fortress, sinister and menacing in the fading light. Every corner hosted a gargoyle or demon, each disturbingly beautiful in its own evil way. Inside the walls, surrounded by a courtyard of cottages and food shops, a castle stood, its doors guarded by a shimmering field of green sparkles.

Inside the Great Hall, a tall man sat on a throne of dark black wood. His face was menacing, with narrowed slits of red eyes, his body lithe and contorted in snake-like smoothness. To his left stood a pale, blonde young man, his eyes icy and haughty, and his face pointed. Despite his sneering countenance, he was attractive and aloof.

To the Lord's right, a tall, thin young woman stood. Her hair was long and black, her eyes blue, though dark and stormy. Her face was round, her eyes large, her nose straight and noble, and her lips pouted. Her beautiful face was a frozen mask of passiveness and neutrality. She simply stared ahead, waiting.

"It's time," the Lord said in a cold voice, and the young man placed a mask upon his head. The young woman didn't bother, but simply stared icily forward.

There was a succession of pops, as a group of people in masks appeared, standing in a tight circle around the Lord.

"Welcome, followers. You are all prompt, how unusual…did you bring the prisoner?"

A dull murmuring washed over the crowd, and a large man stepped forward, then flicked his wand casually at the empty space in front of him. A young woman, her hair blonde, and her green eyes burning, appeared before them, kneeling painfully. She looked up at the Lord with hatred in her eyes.

"Hello, Miss Burnett. You know who I am, do you not?"

She spat at his feet, and he laughed, his voice high.

"Yes, I think you do. We are going to kill you, Gemma. Do you want to know why?"

Gemma kept her eyes on the ground, refusing to look at him.

"No? You are a filthy Bloodtraitor."

"Morrigan," he said softly, and the young woman stepped forward, her eyes on her Lord.

"Yes, my lord?" she asked him, her voice velvet and alluring.

"Do begin," he instructed. Morrigan's face didn't even flicker—she was used to this. Every once in awhile he made her do the dirty work, to renew his faith in her loyalty. He would be pleased into rewarding her for her devotion—a book, a trinket, a particularly challenging mission that took her out of Parselart Fortress.

Morrigan stepped forward, her eyes on the young woman's. There was only hatred, not fear, there, and she wondered briefly who she was. Morrigan's Lord used her talents only on special victims. The girl reminded her of another girl—one with flaming red hair and hatred in her eyes. That girl got away, though.

"_Crucio_," she hissed, and the girl shrieked with agony, her body hitting the floor with more force than she could possibly have done if not for the pain coursing through her body. The Death Eaters guffawed asininely, incensing Morrigan, causing the pain on the other end of the wand to increase in volumes. A voice said very quietly, "That's all, Morrigan." She stopped, then stepped backward, her eyes on the ground.

"Are you ill, dear?" the Dark Lord asked the girl before him, and she looked back up at him, her eyes filled with detestation.

"You're strong," Voldemort noted. "Not stronger than Morrigan," he added. He placed a cold finger on Morrigan's arm. She didn't flinch or pull away, positively craving her Lord's touch, the coolness, the softness…. "She once endured five whole minutes of the Cruciatus without screaming," Voldemort said idly, and the girl's eyes flickered to Morrigan.

"Unfeeling bitch," she spat.

"Yes, she does have a penchant for neutrality. Remarkable self-control. You might want to take a page from her book, could save you from a world of destruction…." Voldemort turned to her captor, waving his hand dismissively. "I want her out of my sight. Kill her."

Gemma disappeared, and Voldemort began speaking to his followers, instructing and reprimanding. Morrigan's mind was far away, having already heard everything he was saying. The Dark Lord shared much with her, but never everything. She could not presume to think she was in his confidence. The Dark Lord never gave any one person every piece of information. Instead he shared bits and pieces among followers, threatening them so as to bind their tongues.

She could feel someone staring at her, and she looked into the masks, finding a pair of angry eyes glaring brightly at her. She instantly recognized them; the dark hints of circles, the long eyelashes, the size of those orbs…Bellatrix Lestrange never forgave Morrigan for being promoted and placed at the Dark Lord's right.

Voldemort dismissed them all at the end. He smiled at the girl beside him, making his hideously deformed face even uglier. "She's going to try to kill you someday, Morrigan," he told her. "You had better, perhaps, get on her good side."

"If I was on her good side, I wouldn't be on yours, Grace," she said fiercely. "I am afraid of you, only."

"Very eloquent, my dear. Your reward, now, I think…"

Morrigan knelt beside him, and he smiled down at her. "The Potter mission."

"The Potter mission, my Lord?" she asked him, her brow furrowed. "What is it you wish me to do?"

"Follow him and bring him to me. You and Draco."

Morrigan looked at Draco with disgust. "Him, sir?"

"Yes. You two will need to put your differences aside and work together if you wish to complete this, or you will find very quickly that you will be in my bad graces."

"Yes, sir," Morrigan replied, her voice stony.

"Ah, don't sound so displeased, my dear. Draco is intelligent. Handsome, perhaps, I wouldn't know…get ready to leave."

Morrigan stood and strode for the door, not turning to see if Draco followed her. In the entrance of the Great Hall, she waited.

Malfoy stopped beside her, saying coldly, "Think you can take Potter on, _pet_?" Neither looked at each other, Morrigan occupying herself with fixing her robes, Draco fishing a map out of his robepocket.

"I'm more worried for the little boy who cannot fight the words of an old man," she countered, her voice tight.

Draco ignored the jibe coolly. "We shall see. You've never met, Potter. A bit young, aren't you?"

"Unlike you, Malfoy, I rose through the ranks on my own. Not because daddy screwed up and needed replacement. My own power is what supports me. Not the purity of my blood."

"Of course, because I believe that's _all_ that matters," Draco replied sarcastically. "You'll find it's a bit harder when you haven't got His Lordship behind you. It's a bit more than pointing a wand and muttering a few words."

"I see," she said, noticing his look of disgust. "You think me a heathen, a wanton pain-eater."

"Yes," Draco replied, his voice evident of antipathy. "A monster, no better than Greyback."

"Then why are you a Death Eater?" Morrigan asked him impatiently. "If you can't take the blood and dirt, run to Potter and his friends. I'm sure they'll welcome you with open arms, what with the information you can provide them."

"I wouldn't dream on it," Draco replied. "Muggle lovers and Mudbloods can hold no companionship for me." He brusquely changed subject. "We shall leave on the morrow, seven a.m. You will bring winter wear and money."

"You're the boss on this, are you?" she asked him.

"Yes, I'm infinitely more experienced," he told her disdainfully. "We'll start in Godric's Hollow, then London."

"Do you have the slightest idea where we're going?" she asked him, her voice accusatory.

"If I didn't, you would be leading, oh wise one," Draco told her sarcastically. "'Night."

Morrigan stormed away, her mind angrily replaying his cool words. Something about Malfoy crept into her skin, leaving a dirty, slimy feeling. She hated him, oh how she hated him.

Her room was in the East Wing of the castle. It was small and warm. A single-sized bed was pushed into a corner, its bedding a sheet, a quilt, and a coverlet. A small fireplace burnt merrily at the center, with a rug and armchair in front of the hearth. Books were her only earthly indulgences, and they filled three large bookcases along the only free spaces of the walls. A small walk-in closet held her clothing, and a trunk housed her only other possessions.

She read, briefly, from a book the Dark Lord had given her last time—_Plague and Pestilence: Liquid Death and the Ability to Brew Disease _by Moira Leugly—and then went to sleep. Her sleep was always dreamless and deep. She woke up at six, viewing the dark early winter sky apprehensively. She wore her winter robes, feeling overheated in the toasty room; and brought her pouch of coins from the chest, weighing it in her hand. Of late, its contents had been overused, and she needed to ask the Dark Lord to withdraw more money. Hell, she might do it herself, she considered, and with a shrug, she put her key into the bag.

When her watch read six forty-five, she crept out the door, shutting it quietly and locking it with a snap. She charmed it confidently, preventing anyone from entering. Morrigan turned down the hall, her boots filling the quarters with a dull sound halfway between a click and a thud.

Morrigan appeared in the entrance of the hall, ten minutes early and confident in her pre-promptness, but Malfoy had arrived before her already. "About time," he said, as she rolled her eyes silently. "Ready?" he asked, and she nodded. Both Apparated with a pop, suddenly finding themselves in a small town, their appearances unmarked by its sleepers. "Potter's probably searching the ruins of the house," Draco told her at a whisper, and she frowned.

"What _ruins_?" Morrigan hissed.

"His parents' house."

"His parents died eighteen years ago," she told him. "There would be _no ruins_."

"I'm told that the house was only partially destroyed. He's been sighted in this area, and that's where he'd be."

"At this hour?" Morrigan asked him, still not wanting to take Malfoy's word for it.

"Don't you want to be there first?" Draco snapped. "We're not going to be able to get him if we're not waiting for him."

Morrigan, seeing the wisdom in this belatedly, simply looked annoyed and followed Malfoy down the street. A soft snow was falling, punctual in the early December fashion. The streets were covered in a thin layer, muffling their footsteps pleasantly. A light over the driveway of one house cast orange shadows, and Morrigan felt a shiver of delight. Orange appealed to her in a way that no other color could. It would be inane to call it her favorite color, a childish preference that she might have once cared about years ago. Still, she preferred it, but tried to hide it from her fellow Death Eaters. A preference to colors such as orange, red, or yellow was like a male liking pink—unsuitable and a symbol of weakness.

He led them on to the northern end of the village, coming to a stop in front of a dark house. To it's right, the charred remains of a house half stood, half depended on the remaining timbers. "This is it?" Morrigan asked, but Malfoy didn't answer. He turned and leveled his wand at her.

"Funny, Malfoy. Now where do you propose we wait?"

"I'm taking you in to Headquarters, Flaherty."

"Headquarters? What are you talking about?" she asked stupidly, her mind thinking about the wand up her sleeve. If she could get him talking, she'd be able to curse him into oblivion.

"Order Headquarters," said a voice behind her, and she spun, coming eye to eye with a black-haired youth, green eyes viewing her spitefully.

"What the hell?" she hissed, turning to look at Malfoy, whose face had a familiar schooled expression of neutrality, one she recognized every time she looked in the mirror, or could feel as she tortured countless innocents.

"_Expelliarmus!_" the youth snapped, and her wand flew out her sleeve, traitorously landing smoothly in Potter's palm.

Morrigan looked from face to face, her face contorted in anger. She suddenly jumped, running forward and toward the house across the street, hoping to enter and use its contents as leverage. A stunning spell caught her in the back, and she dropped like a stone to the pavement.

Harry and Draco stepped forward to grab her body. "Jesus, Malfoy, you said she was smart," Harry said, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder.

"I didn't know it would be that easy," Draco said stiffly.

"Apparently."

Draco didn't respond, checking his watch. "Almost time," he said, referring to a teddy bear in Harry's hand.

Both of them grasped the bear tightly in their hands, Harry placing one of Morrigan's fingers on the fake fur. "Five, four, three, two…"

A rush and a tug of the naval hailed the beginning effects of Portkey travel. They landed gracelessly on the lawn of the Weasleys'. Both walked to the door and Harry knocked. Looking about, Draco's lip curled in distaste at the poorly built house. A voice from inside called fearfully out, "Who goes there?"

"Just Harry and Malfoy," Harry called inside.

"The security question, Harry," Molly fussed.

Harry sighed, looking down at his feet. "Go ahead, then."

"What's my favorite tea?" Molly called.

"English with a squirt of lemon, a teaspoon of sugar, and absolutely no milk."

"Very good, Harry. Now, Mr. Malfoy, my favorite candy?"

"Sugarless chocolate," Draco said in a bored voice.

The door opened to Mrs. Weasley, who ushered both young men in, and looked rather distressed at the Stupefied young woman slung over Harry's shoulder. "Are you waiting for Remus?" she asked him, her voice worried.

"Yeah. Do you mind…?" Harry gestured to the pot of tea after having slung Morrigan over the back of the couch, and Mrs. Weasley jumped to find a cup. "No, not at all, dear. Mr. Malfoy, would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," Draco replied quietly, and she looked away from him quickly. Everyone felt a bit awkward in Draco's presence, as if he was the punk their daughter had brought home from school. Draco had grown accustomed to this, however, and merely stood, his back rigid. He watched Morrigan closely, looking for a mere twitch to indicate consciousness.

"Did she give much struggle?" Mrs. Weasley asked in hushed tones.

"She tried to, but she was in so much shock at Malfoy's deception, she barely reacted. She was disarmed and Stupefied with little struggle at all."

"Oh, I thought she was going to be more difficult," Mrs. Weasley said, throwing a glance at Draco, who once more ignored it.

"Yeah, I guess she's not used to hands on work."

Silence fell, the kitchen-goers lost in their own thought. Someone bounded down the stairs. "Hi, Harry, hi, Mrs. Weasley, is that—Oh, hi Draco."

Draco jumped at the use of his name, and looked around wildly for the speaker, his eyes settling upon Hermione Granger.

"Hello, Granger," he replied laboriously.

"That's her?" she asked, awe and disgust in her voice.

"Yes," Harry told her. "Flaherty, her name was, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Draco said, "Morrigan Flaherty."

"She's rather pretty, isn't she?" Hermione asked, examining her face, then shivered. "The right hand of Voldemort in the Weasleys' kitchen. How disturbing."

"The left hand is frequently in the kitchen," Draco told her sharply, surprised at himself for saying anything.

"Yes, well, I meant…" Hermione said, flustered, but Draco ignored her.

Two people walked down the stairs, the boy's eyes resting on Morrigan. "Whoa, who's _she?_"

"My torturer," the voice behind him growled. Ginny walked slowly into the kitchen, her eyes never leaving Morrigan's face.

The entire kitchen fell silent. Ginny hovered over Morrigan, her face flushed and eyes filled with hatred. "Let's kill her now, she'll never tell us anything," she said, brandishing her wand exuberantly.

"No, orders are to take her," Draco snapped. "And we'll do just that."

"That's right, the obedient one," Ginny sneered. "Standing at Voldemort's side, weak and passive, as this monster tortured me."

"You know well why I did that," Draco said tightly.

"Yes, the ever-risky Malfoy couldn't take on more risk," Ginny said, her voice rising.

"She'll talk," Harry said, his voice rising over Ginny's. "We'll make her."

"Potter, she took five minutes of the Cruciatus without screaming. There is nothing you can do to make her talk," Draco told him.

Harry frowned. "She did?"

"Yes," Draco said, his voice low. "But those aren't the means the Order takes to get information from prisoners, so it's irrelevant."

Harry looked at Ginny, biting his lip. Hopefully Remus got there soon. He couldn't take much more of listening to Ginny grind her teeth and watching Malfoy locking his lips firmly against his teeth to prevent them from curling.

Almost on cue, someone knocked on the door of the Burrow. Molly asked the security questions, and Remus barged in

"Hi all." He turned to Harry and Draco, and looked at Morrigan. "Better hurry. We want her at Headquarters before light."

"This is an extraordinary risk you're taking to obtain this one person," Hermione said, attempting to keep her voice light. "Draco's blowing his cover and trying to get someone else in his position…"

"Yes, well, she's valuable and horrible. We can get information and dispose of Voldemort's most loyal at the same time."

Ginny threw her hands up and walked up the stairs, but Lupin called, "Ginny, come back." To Mrs. Weasley he explained, "We're all going to the Headquarters. This is the third or fourth place Voldemort will look for her, and this house has to be evacuated." He handed Harry one of the pieces of parchment and an identical piece to Draco, then Disapparated out of the kitchen.

Harry and Draco exchanged glances, then simultaneously Apparated to a small, familiar neighborhood of London, Morrigan's hand in Harry's.

Harry bent to pick Morrigan up, but Draco pushed him out of the way and slung Morrigan over his shoulder. "My turn," he grunted and started down the walk, which was slick and snowy. The snow was coming down harder and faster. They came up on an empty lot, hideous and barren. Both looked down at their slips, the front door appearing before them immediately. They opened the door and walked inside, wary of the darkness. Draco closed the door quietly behind him, then muttered, "_Lumos_," his wand lighting up like a lighthouse. Harry lit the candles in the corridor by the light of Draco's wand, and they both walked into the dining room, lighting the chandelier. Draco placed Morrigan upon a chair. He stood and pointed his wand at the chair, where snakelike cords shot out and surrounded the chair and with it, Morrigan.

Satisfied, he pointed his wand at Morrigan, thinking, _"Ennervate." _She stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

Instantly, her face turned to a snarl, her body tensing. "Malfoy!" she hissed. "Traitor!"

Draco didn't answer her, simply folded his arms and watched her coolly.

"Respond," she growled.

"You're stupid," Draco replied automatically, appeasing her mockingly. He shook his head disbelievingly. "What a _child_. Were you raised by apes?"

Morrigan's face went slack momentarily, and then was back to its furious shape. "Don't talk to me," she hissed contradictorily, not looking at him.

Draco shrugged his shoulders. "Potter will be here momentarily with breakfast. You do want breakfast, don't you?"

Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "You're going to poison me."

Draco barked a laugh. "Poison you? Go through all that trouble to _poison _you?"

"Veritaserum, then."

Draco shook his head. "You overestimate your own power. The Dark Lord tells both hands the same things. Everything you know, I know. There's nothing you could possibly tell us."

Draco left the room, leaving her with a lie and unkindly allowing Harry to handle the interrogation.

That afternoon, a great deal of stomping feet and chatter could be heard from the downstairs. Draco closed his book with a snap, sure that he wouldn't get any reading done with the whole company here. He stood, stretching, and walked about the room, separating his personal items. He placed them on the bed, then swished his wand at the bed, levitating it into a corner of the room away from the other two beds. He pulled the only bedside table in the room toward his bed, and placed his bag upon it, thus marking it as his.

Suddenly, Ronald Weasley burst into the room, shouting at his sister down the hall. His eyes narrowed slightly when he took in Malfoy sitting on the bed, watching him without interest. Malfoy smirked slightly, just to annoy the red-haired intruder, before he opened his book and began to read again. He could hear stomping up and down the halls, various shouts and exclamations filling the house. _The Weasley bunch have once again turned a sizeable dwelling into a house of racket—no mean feat. _He sneered to himself slightly, then the door opened to reveal Hermione and a stony-faced Ginny.

"Draco," Hermione said meekly, "Mrs. Weasley is taking votes for dinner. Would you like shepherds pie or potato soup?"

Draco shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever, I don't care." Granger's attempts at amity were becoming more desperate and pitiful. Draco didn't want to be her friend. He didn't want to be _anyone's _friend. Such as his type didn't keep friends well, and that was assuming they managed to attain them. Besides, it was _Granger_.

Hermione bit her lip and watched him for a moment, but he paid her no heed, and eventually she left, disappointed again. Granger was the only one among them that had even attempted civility. Ron didn't speak at all, save to put in a vile remark. Ginny mocked him. Harry tolerated him, and that was it. Mrs. Weasley tried her hardest to be friendly, but after all Ron had probably related back to her on their schoolyard fights, she no doubt found Malfoy every bit as despicable as he found her irritating.

Draco's curiosity fell upon Morrigan's fate. He debated leaving the solitude of the bedroom, shared with Weasley and Potter, to brave the already bustling downstairs, or to stay and quietly read his book.

In the end, curiosity won out, and he wandered downstairs to find out how the no doubt scandalized (an understatement, surely) Morrigan was doing. He posed a questioning look at Potter, who indicated the basement door. Draco ascended quietly, his hand clutching his wand.

This turned out to be a wise move, as five knives hurtled themselves through the air at him the moment he stepped on the bottom landing. He stopped them immediately, and they clattered uselessly to the cold floor.

Morrigan was huddled in her robes in a corner, glaring angrily at him. "Oh dear," he said flippantly, "forgot to remove these knives…"

"You know what, you're a fucker, Malfoy."

"Correction: I _was. _Back in the Hogwarts days. You know, Slytherin girls are cute. But you wouldn't know about the cute part, I suppose. Unless you are, in fact, as my suspicions have always been, a lesbian."

"Shut up," she snarled. "When did you defect?"

"Make up your mind, Flaherty. Do you want me to tell you or shut up?"

She looked at him expectantly, and he sighed. "When I escaped from Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore got to you, did he?" she sneered.

"Yes, he did, in fact. Did you ever speak with Dumbledore, Flaherty?"

"No," she uttered with a scowl.

"You may not understand this, but he was very intelligent. He was also very good."

"Ah, so now you're _good_."

Malfoy sat down on a low table. "Very few people are actually good," he said impatiently. "There are a great many people that go out in the world with good intentions, but good intentions do not always lead to good results, and only those whose good intentions become good results are the ones that you can ultimately call 'good.'"

"Oh, you're lecturing me now," she laughed unpleasantly.

"From the looks of things, you could use some lecturing."

"Ah, yes, forgive me if I don't accept your judgment."

Draco put his hands up and said, "Hey, it's your life, not mine. You'll just notice that you're the one locked in a cellar without a wand, while I'm comfortably situated in the beds upstairs with mine beside me."

"Beside people you hate," she scoffed. She smiled nastily. "The people that hate you."

"Sometimes any company is good," he said quietly, and she leaned forward.

"Sorry, what was that?" she asked him, but he shook his head.

"Well, Morrigan," he said, standing, "I'm going to leave. And I'm going to take _these_," he scooped to pick up the knives, "with me. Good day."

"Wait!" she called, and he turned to her, eyebrow raised coolly.

"It's cold in here. Possibly a fire?" she asked, pointing to the hearth, but Draco smiled cruelly.

"No fire for you, Flaherty. You'll burn the house down _somehow_—you would manage to find a way."

He climbed the stairs, opened the door, and set the knives on the landing, then turned and whispered, _"Temperatura." _Warmth spread quickly from the tip of his wand, and in moments had filled the small basement. He smiled at the good wandwork, then left, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: This is based off J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. I own nothing save for the new plot and original characters.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Two: What to Do With Flaherty?**

Draco spent the rest of the week avoiding the rest of the inhabitants of Grimmauld Place. He read from _Self-Transfiguration: A Guide to Changing One's Appearance_, looked at the Black family heirlooms—a source of disgust and shallow pride simultaneously—and mostly tried to stay out of the way. Granger continued her weak attempts at peace, while everyone else, including Draco, sneered behind her back at her naïveté. Draco overheard Ron and Hermione arguing over it one night in Hermione's room, the couple either forgetting or uncaring that the walls were rather thin.

"Hermione, have you forgotten all those times he's called you Mudblood? Or doesn't that matter to you?"

"Of course it does. But I'm not going to let a school feud get in the way of being friendly to an _ally_. That's what you're supposed to do, Ron. Make friends and strengthen connections."

"Malfoy only quit You-Know-Who because he didn't have the stomach. Have you noticed he's been specializing in retrieval jobs?"

"Have you noticed that he had to stand by Voldemort as he and his minions tortured innocents?"

"Why are you defending him, Hermione? He's a snobby ass, and he's nowhere near worthy of your pity."

Draco stopped listening then, rolling over on the bed and placing a pillow over his head. He didn't have to listen to their self-righteous bickering. He knew himself, and their limited understanding of him was irrelevant. So what if the Weasel didn't like him? Life goes on, et cetera.

At the end of the week, the Burrow was once again safe for occupation. The Order convened to discuss what was to be done with Flaherty, as the current inhabitants of Grimmauld Place were to leave the next morning. Alastor Moody led the meeting with Lupin beside him (no doubt to keep him in check). Tables were erected around the room so as to leave space in the center for the prisoner.

Ginny was exempt from the meeting, although she was the only person at number twelve to be excluded. The twins arrived a few minutes before the meeting, as did Tonks (of course setting off the picture frame of Mrs. Black), Mr. Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Elphias Doge, Cara Collins, and Lucrete Sorens.

Morrigan sat in the center of the room, bound to a chair, her eyes fixed pointedly on the floor, her face once more dispassionate. Mad-Eye began the meeting, his magical eyes surveying all members of the meeting.

"Would you stop doing that, Mad-Eye, it's disgusting," Tonks said, revolted.

"Got something to hide, Tonks?" Moody growled, surveying her closely.

The Metamorphmagus simply rolled her eyes and said, "Do continue."

"The main question of this meeting is what to do with the prisoner?" Mad-Eye said loudly, but no one stepped forward with any ideas. "Anyone?"

"We could turn her into the Ministry," Kingsley offered.

Harry shook his head. "Voldemort's lot will do anything to break her out—she's a high level Death Eater, she is. I don't want to chance her getting away. Besides, she's got information on the Order, now. The Ministry can't know anything about it." He took a swig of tea, his eyes daring anyone to disagree with him.

"Harry, we can't just keep her prisoner forever," Remus reminded him.

"Sure we can," Harry said with a shrug. "She's not terribly difficult."

"You say that now," Ron told him. "I'll bet she teaches herself martial arts and escapes!"

"Ron, you've been reading _Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle _again, haven't you?" Hermione accused. Ron's ears colored, and the members of the meeting laughed heartily. "Ronald, I've told you a thousand times that none of that is even accurate—"

"Moving on," Lucrete said loudly, her eyes flashing. Lucrete was a large witch with multiple chins, brown hair, and tiny eyes. She worked as a facilitator for interdepartmental activities. Mostly it involved breaking up the fights of department heads that believed their work on particular subjects was more significant than their peer's. Lucrete despised conflict of any sort and was known for her incredible Polar Magnetism charms, which either caused the subjects to stick together or be pushed apart. Her confrontational issues aside, Harry couldn't look at her without reminiscing vaguely about his Uncle Vernon.

"We can't just let her go," Kingsley said. "And we can't kill her, either."

"Why not?" Cara Collins (a young woman whose parents had been personally killed by Voldemort while she was at school) asked in her surly voice. "I'm sure no one would mind if there was one less piece of vermin on earth."

"We're not killing her," Kingsley said in a firm voice, reprimanding Cara. He was currently training her to be an Auror, and he'd had quite enough of her provoking nature over the past two months.

"Yeah, but she does know a lot," Hermione added. "Perhaps if we waited until they thought she was dead…?"

"That would be a lot of waiting," Moody put in. "And we'd have to put someone trustworthy _and _capable with her. That would require a lot of time and, if I guess correctly, patience. Patience I doubt many of us have."

"We've all got jobs, too," Doge said. "We can't stop everything, just to guard You-Know-Who's pet."

"What about Draco?" Hermione said nervously, and he turned to scowl at her. "He can't spy on the Dark Lord anymore, because they know he's a traitor."

Moody turned and said gruffly to Draco, "You think you can handle her, kid?"

"I don't _want _to handle her," Draco protested icily. "I don't want to baby-sit her for a month."

"You won't be here for a month," Remus said grimly. "You'll probably be here for _months_."

"Look, I have a life outside the Order," Draco said heatedly. "And she's not it."

"You're the only _capable_ person available," Shacklebolt said, his voice irritated at Draco's irrationality. "You're a risk out in the open, and you don't have another job. Besides, we'll be providing you with room and board."

Draco looked angrily from face to face, when a voice said, "What if someone else helped him?" Mrs. Weasley had spoken up, and Draco turned bright pink, trying to seem respectful and at the same time feeling extremely violent toward the woman. "Someone to keep the house in working order, and help him if things get a bit difficult."

Moody and Lupin exchanged looks and said immediately, together, "Hermione."

"WHAT?" Draco bellowed, standing. "If I have to do this, I'll do it on my own, thanks."

"Sorry, Malfoy, you're not accountable by yourself," Moody told him bluntly. "You need someone here, and the best candidate is Granger."

Hermione had been, until now, speechless. Finally she spoke up, "I'll do it."

Draco glared at her fiercely. "Shut up, Granger."

"Sorry, it makes sense," she said meekly, then turned to Moody and Lupin, who smiled at her proudly. Draco stormed from the room, his face red.

"Done. This meeting is concluded. Do you have anything to say, Flaherty?" Moody added, and everyone who had been standing sat promptly, interest apparent on their faces.

Morrigan looked at Moody with blank eyes, and he stared back, thoroughly repulsed. She looked back down, her body slack. The group exchanged inquisitive looks. Moody picked up the useless papers before him, tapping the stack smartly at their bottoms to keep them organized. "Dismissed," he grunted, and the room emptied. Before Moody left, he called out, "Malfoy, get this monster back in the basement." Malfoy entered, scowling, and unbound Morrigan, then muttered, "_Mobilicorpus._" She was snapped straight out into the air. She threw him a nasty look as he transported her body into the dank basement.

At the bottom, he dropped her promptly, and she landed awkwardly on the floor. She stood slowly, then stalked to the corner, her eyes on him, her hands across her chest. He smiled cattily at her, then said, "Seems we're to see a lot of each other the next few months, Flaherty."

She sniffed, looking away.

"That's right, this is all my fault you're a wretched baddie, and now you're being held accountable for your actions."

"The Darkness will overcome," she hissed, her eyes filled with an animalistic rage.

"Oh spare the bull shit for Potter," Draco drawled lazily, sitting on the stairs. "You've been so blinded by the Dark Lord, you don't even know how to think for yourself."

"You're not supposed to think for yourself!" Morrigan snapped. "The Dark Lord knows all. Following his bidding will bring us each freedom."

Draco gaped at her. "You're so deluded. How can you possibly believe that?"

"Because it's true."

"Who told you that?" Draco demanded.

"The Dark Lord," she told him, as if it were too obvious.

"So, by your reasoning, you're using the Dark Lord's word to justify the Dark Lord's work?"

Morrigan didn't say anything but merely raised a condescending eyebrow.

"You're impossible," Draco muttered, standing and ascending the stairs.

* * *

Draco entered his room to find Hermione and Ron snogging on Ron's bed. He rolled his eyes in disgust, waiting for them to leave. When they showed no inclination of doing so, he cleared his throat loudly. Both jumped, pulling apart immediately. Ron's ears colored, and Hermione looked at the floor. "I'm not your mother," Draco snapped. "Get out if you're going to make out."

Ron stood, fists clenched, but Hermione put a hand on his arm. "It's a reasonable request, Ron," she said timidly. "Leave him alone." She stood and they exited the room quickly, away from Draco's cold, sickened eyes.

Draco sat on his bed in the corner, his mind bitterly settling upon his new lot in life. Spending any amount of time stuck in a house with a surly, animalistic Death Eater appealed to no one, but having to spend that time with Granger, too…he might as well kill himself now. He knew precisely why she had been appointed to "help" him—the Order still didn't entirely trust him, and Granger had a history of stepping in when he was involved. After all the things he had done for them, it wasn't enough that he had proved himself time and time again. True, bringing the Death Eaters into Hogwarts had been an unwise move; and most still blamed Dumbledore's death on him, despite the fact that Snape himself had actually done the Headmaster in, but he had been younger and stupid. Now, more than a year later, he had repented and volunteered for an extremely dangerous job.

Still, they couldn't trust one former Death Eater with a strongly ideated Death Eater, could they? Perhaps she would convince Draco to go back to the Dark Lord--offer him her help, if he would just let her escape, let her have her wand. Draco wouldn't do that whether he was loyal to Voldemort or not. No matter what he believed morally, she would always be a bloodthirsty fiend and he would by no means help her escape any captors.

His anger increased as he thought through his own self-justification. _How dare they presume I would defect, _he thought angrily. _I picked their side and I've done a bloody good job at helping them. _

_What would you expect from Mudbloods and bloodtraitors? _a nasty voice answered him.

_For all their self-righteousness, a bit of consistence as to their moral qualms_, he replied bitterly.

Draco pushed his indignant thoughts from his mind, instead settling on his book. He opened it to the page he had been reading, and once again began his perusal of shape changing.

* * *

The Weasleys spent two more days at the Burrow, as opposed to the planned one. Ron and Hermione found a new place to snog—the library. Although devoid of books, it held a great deal of extra household items—such as cleaner, Potion ingredients (moved from the basement), and bedding. Thus, almost every person in the house managed to walk in on them. After they victimized Draco, he wondered angrily if they could _possibly_ find somewhere else to kiss.

For meals, Draco scooped his food into a bowl or on a plate and immediately snuck quietly up to the room. He didn't want to be involved in their "happy family"-ness, and he didn't want to listen to them avoid certain subjects altogether, due to his presence. He solved this problem, and truthfully, every diner felt relieved.

Finally, one morning at five a.m. so they wouldn't have to sneak about the neighborhood, Hermione saw everyone off, with a hug for her friends, a warning of caution from Harry, and a quick kiss on the lips from Ron. They waved at her as they exited, someone calling that they'd see her at Christmas. Hermione closed the door behind her, and turned to see Draco leaning against the wall with an amused expression on his face. Hermione jumped about a foot, placing a hand on her heart. "Draco! You startled me."

"Really," he said sarcastically. "And call me Malfoy," he added, turning and walking back up the stairs. Hermione frowned after him, unsure of what to say. Instead of saying anything, she collapsed on the new couch (bought due to the smell emitted when one sat on the old couch) and slept for a couple hours. She woke to the smells of breakfast.

She ambled lazily into the kitchen, finding Draco at the stove, frying bacon and eggs. Kippers sat on a plate at one of the places. Hermione reached a hand out to try one but Draco snapped, "Don't." She scowled at the back of his head.

Hermione put her hands on her hips and asked, "Why not?"

"Because it's _my _breakfast. Make your own if you want some."

"It wouldn't kill you to make breakfast for all three of us."

"Yes, it would. I made some for Flaherty and myself. You can make your own breakfast."

Hermione glowered at him and sat down.

Draco didn't say anything, simply stared into space as he waited for his food to finish. Finally, it seemed done and he grabbed the plate from the table, flipping half the contents onto the plate, then turned off the stove and left the kitchen to go to the basement. He descended and saw Morrigan sitting in the corner, dozing quietly with her head against the wall. "Wake up," he said loudly, and Morrigan stirred. She sniffed the air, then stood and approached the table on which he had placed the platter.

"Is there a fork?" she asked him, and he handed it to her promptly. "And some milk or something?" she asked tentatively.

Draco rolled his eyes, left, and returned with a glass of milk. Morrigan had already consumed the entire breakfast and was waiting for him expectantly. He handed her the glass thanklessly, and she gulped it down within seconds.

"That was really good," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Who made it?"

Draco smiled nastily at her. "Me."

She turned a humorously nauseated shade of green, and then resumed her place in the corner, glaring ferociously at him. He shrugged, picking the plate up and leaving once more.

Hermione had boiled oats in hot water to make a nice bit of hot cereal. She put cream and brown sugar in it, much to Draco's disgust. "Brown sugar is an ingredient, not a topping," he said, entering the room and looking down at her. "How _Muggle-like _of you, Granger."

"If it's good, who are you to judge it?" Hermione protested. "Anyway," she continued, "You'll criticize anything I do, so it's useless to try to appease you."

"Yes, but more entertaining," he said, and Hermione could hear the smirk in his voice. Breakfast was finished in cold silence; afterward Hermione began a rigid cleaning raid upon the house, going from room to room and figuring out what needed to be done. She wrote it all down on a very elaborate list, omitting not one detail. She sat in the kitchen, poring over books left by Mrs. Weasley during past stays. She had discovered that nearly every curtain and corner of No. Twelve housed a nest of doxies, and what she suspected was, as of yet, a small Bundimun infestation in the sitting room. Hermione was muttering over the list, trying to think of an alternative to the spray form of Doxycide. She was having ill luck, and her muttering became mutinous about having been given the thankless job of ridding the house of scum and pests. Her muttering must have been quite a bit louder than she had intended, because Malfoy called from the drawing room, "Don't forget about the Chizpurfles in the attic."

She threw a menacing look towards the door, putting "_Chizpurfles—cursed antiques in the attic; needs PestsGawn_" resentfully at the bottom of the list. Hermione finally set to work, starting in the drawing room first, so as to irritate Malfoy to the fullest. She walked in the room, noticing the intensity of his study. He was leaned forward from the couch over the coffee table, his hand under his chin, his eyes intent on the page before him. He didn't even notice her. Turning back to her work, Hermione held up the mostly-empty bottle of Doxycide in distaste, and then wrapped a scarf around her head. She turned to Malfoy and said, "I'd advise you cover your orifices with something, but it would be too fortunate if you _died _due to a tragic Doxycide poisoning."

Malfoy glanced at her distractedly and asked, "What's that?"

Hermione sighed dramatically and held up the bottle of Doxycide with a sarcastic expression. His eyes widened in understanding, he closed his book, and fled the room. Hermione smiled with satisfaction, then sprayed the curtain once. Five or so Doxies flew out immediately—the remaining survivors of the last attack. This time, they surely reasoned, they'd get that evil woman and her minions. Hermione sprayed each in the face promptly, one-by-one falling to the ground heavily. She fluffed the curtains uncertainly, and when sure that there were no more Doxies, proceeded to the next curtain and thus repeated. Hermione was forced to check every curtain and cranny in the house, and managed, with the very little Doxycide she had remaining, to get every Doxy.

Any strength she had possessed at the beginning of this chore was soon sapped away, and at three, she was forced to take a break. To her surprise, Malfoy had made her two cheese sandwiches and handed her a bottle of butterbeer when she had entered the kitchen fully prepared to begin preparations for lunch. "Thanks," she uttered gracelessly. "Where'd you get the butterbeer?"

"Lupin left some. There was a note in the cabinet."

"Ah." Hermione took a swig, delighted with the taste after a bit of hard work.

"It'll be your job to make dinner," Malfoy told her.

"Sure. What do you want? I'm pretty good at spaghetti. Or, if you'd like—"

"I don't care, Granger," Malfoy cut her off. "Just make enough for Flaherty, too."

Hermione looked disappointed. She had hoped that his thoughtfulness in providing lunch was an indication of an attempt to be friendly, but he had simply wanted to make the easier of two meals. The thought filled her with cold fury at his apathy and laziness, and she wanted to lash out at him, but stopped herself. _He's just trying to get you to lose control, Hermione. Get a grip_.

Malfoy smirked. "Go ahead and say it, Granger. Your self-control is going to give in soon anyway, with me around."

"Why are you being such an ass?" Hermione shrieked suddenly, even shocking herself, but she continued. "I'm just trying to be civil. It's not that hard to just _let _people like you. It makes life a hell of a lot easier, and if you keep pushing people away, you're just going to end up alone and friendless."

"Granger, I don't _need _friends to feel 'fulfilled,' or whatever else you types are so obsessed about. What I need, to feel fulfilled, is peace and quiet, with as few responsibilities as possible—and maintaining friendship requires responsibility. So thanks, but no thanks, for the offer."

"Everyone needs friends," Hermione scoffed heatedly. "A man without friends is hardly a man at all."

For some reason, this irked Draco more than anything else she had said, and he rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "You're the _last _person I want to be friends with, Granger."

"I'm the only one who _wants _to be your friend because I'm the only one unafraid of being double-crossed by a double-crosser," Hermione retorted, standing and getting ready to leave.

"I'd rather be _Flaherty's _friend than a snot-headed Gryffindor who can't mind her own business," Draco snarled, his face turning a bright red. Hermione jumped, stung by this remark. She dropped the plate of half-eaten sandwiches and fled the kitchen.

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. _I shouldn't have said that_, he said to himself. _Geezus, Malfoy, how many people are you going to push away for your own self-loathing?_

Unsure of what to do, Malfoy picked up the plate of sandwiches she had dropped, then grabbed the other and headed down the stairs into the basement, feeling rather pathetic for going to the only other person that was more of a vermin than he was.

Morrigan sat, her back quite stiff and turned towards him. Malfoy didn't doubt that her eyes were closed. Some Dark Wizards believed that with proper meditation, one might figure out how to use wandless magic equivalently with wand magic—something wizards had been trying to find a way around for thousands of years. Draco placed the plate and bottle of butterbeer noisily on the table, causing Morrigan to jump and turn on her backside to view him irritably. When she saw that he came bearing food, she immediately leapt to her feet and bounded to the table, wolfing down the sandwiches. Malfoy watched her amusedly, and sat on the stairs.

To his surprise, Morrigan, once finished, sat cross-legged on the table, watching him in the same manner he was watching her—appraisingly.

"Yes?" she asked him, her voice bored.

"Just trying to figure you out, Flaherty," he told her.

"Go ahead and try. I'm not going anywhere."

"Think you'll make it easier on me?" Draco asked, his voice probing.

"No," Morrigan informed him with a cocky smile, shaking her head. "I'd prefer to frustrate you senseless."

"Don't worry, you're not _that _interesting," he said with a well-aimed leer.

Her smile quickly evaporated. "What about you, Malfoy? What's _your _story? Surely it must be good, if you'd prefer the company of Mudbloods and bloodtraitors."

"You think I'm going to tell you a damned thing?" Malfoy sniffed. "You're far too cocky for your own good."

"At least I'm trustworthy," Morrigan snorted.

"It's not a question of why Voldemort trusts you," Malfoy retorted patronizingly. "It's a question of why you trust Voldemort. Why would you trust him if pain is the only reward you ever get for your loyalty? That's not the point of life."

"Maybe it is for some people," Morrigan piped. "If a few sacrifices are made for the good of many, fine then."

"Yeah, but how's it good for _many, _Flaherty? Voldemort's chosen group of men and women are inbred purebloods—a dying breed. When the Death Eaters can't kill Muggleborns and blood traitors, who are they going to kill? Themselves. And when the Purebloods are the only ones left, whom are they going to mate with? Their cousins? Their _parents and siblings_?"

Morrigan opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond to this, and so didn't speak at all.

"You don't realize that it will cost a great deal to do what is ultimately right."

"What's right, Malfoy?" Morrigan cried, standing and beginning to pace, arms waving about animatedly. "We have a set of rules that some person came up with thousands of years ago, which set a boundary between good and bad. Those that pick to follow the rules stay on the 'good' side of the boundary. Those that pick to follow their own rules are placed on the 'bad' side. But 'bad' and 'good' are just words. They don't mean anything. Basically, putting names to definitions is pointless, and defining anything at all is pointless, because no one's ever going to agree."

"In a perfect world, that's relevant. But this isn't perfect, and in this lifetime you have to pick before you're run completely over."

Morrigan stopped, placing her hands on her hips. "Then what's wrong with picking whichever side you want and sticking to it? If you're the one holding the wand, why should you care who's on the other end?"

"Because stepping on others' rights isn't the right way to live," Draco said with a shrug. "Because eventually only one person is happy, and it defeats the purpose in the first place."

Morrigan sneered. "You care far too much for the word 'happy.' Your argument lacks refinement."

"And yours lacks common sense," Draco snapped, standing. "Have a miserable day." He turned and climbed the stairs, slamming the door at the top.


	3. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: This is based off J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. I own nothing save for the new plot and original characters.**  
**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Searching for a Breakthrough**

The next day was tense at best—Hermione moved about the house with her various chores, trying to avoid Draco all the while. This was, of course, impossible, because she was tackling each task by form, not by room, as she didn't want to get into one process to turn and start an entirely different one an hour later. Draco, meanwhile, was wrestling with the guilt of what he had said to her the previous day. Should he apologize, or shouldn't he? He didn't want her to believe that he wished to be her friend, but he didn't want her to think that he really was a priggish asshole--he really just wished to be alone. He couldn't really be an asshole…could he?

Every time these thoughts came up, Draco pushed them violently in the recesses of his mind, trying to concentrate on the process of becoming an Animagi. He hadn't yet picked his animal, and it was coming to that time. The book told him that the animal had to be something he could easily identify with, and Draco rolled his eyes at the cliché. He could imagine being _any _animal. The question wasn't what he _could _become, but what he _needed _to become. This had proved difficult because he could easily think of the disadvantages of every animal.

After the umpteenth time his moral uncertainties pulled him away, he finally stood and went to the kitchen. He decided to make an early lunch of linguini marinara, which they could use as leftovers for dinner, thus preventing Hermione from having to prepare dinner. Her eagerness to make spaghetti yesterday was he _hoped _indicative that she liked Italian food. His suspicions proved correct, because when Hermione smelt the garlic and tomato sauce from the drawing room, she entered, sniffing eagerly.

"Spaghetti?" she asked him.

"No, linguini marinara," he told her. "I thought I'd make a large batch so you don't have to make dinner."

"Thank you, that was thoughtful," she said carefully.

Draco wiped his hands on a towel and turned to face her. Taking a deep breath he said, "Sorry about yesterday—you know, what I said."

Hermione turned bright pink. "Oh! Don't worry about it. I felt bad afterwards. I sort of realized I was out of line, too."

Draco nodded wordlessly, then turned back to grounding the meat for the sauce. Hermione slipped across the kitchen and dipped a finger in the mashed tomatoes and garlic, licking it gingerly. It was wonderful. She dipped her finger in to do it again, but Draco slapped her hand with the flat of the blade of his knife. "No double-dipping," he warned her. "Besides, your hands are disgusting."

"Malfoy, if you're implying—" Hermione began hotly.

"I'm _implying _that you've been cleaning this nasty house all morning and would advise you to wash your hands before you immerse them in my food, Granger."

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, which he ignored, then moved around him to the sink. "If you don't mind me asking, why aren't you using your wand to cook?"

Draco said, "Sometimes it's better when you make it with your hands. I'm sure you of all people would understand that, Granger. You do, after all, love Muggles."

Hermione flushed, but bit her tongue to prevent herself from retorting spitefully. It wasn't as if he'd said anything terribly bad. She finished washing her hands, then turned to the cabinet and pulled out a couple bottles of butterbeer.

"We should probably try harder to get along with each other," she said slowly. Malfoy didn't answer. "Because we're going to be alone for a really long time," she continued. "And if we can _peacefully _coexist, it might even be a pleasant experience."

Malfoy snorted, but again didn't reply. Hermione took a deep breath. "Look, we have to do this, if not for the Order, than for ourselves. Malfoy…_Draco_." Malfoy looked up, looking somewhat annoyed. "We've been enemies since first year. And for what? A stupid feud that started before we were born? We're both on the same side, and as long as we can get along with each other, it will make things…well, easier."

Draco narrowed his eyes, then said casually, "Fine."

Hermione's voice lit up like a firefly. "You're sincere?" she asked.

"Why not?" Draco said with a shrug. "Besides, taunting you has lost its edge. You're too easy."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but wasn't distracted from her pleasure. Within the hour, their early lunch was ready, and she chattered through the entire cooking process. Draco clenched his teeth, but tried to seem polite. After what he had said yesterday (which, he thought now, hadn't been _terrible_), he rather deserved to be put through this incessant torture and most likely, he deliberated, potential death of boredom. Draco didn't understand how on _earth _she could possibly have so much to say to him. She was talking about the Order, she was talking about what they should eat, how cleaning was going, _why _she joined the Order, why she almost didn't join the Order, how wonderful his linguini was (this subject filled ten minutes of time, which he timed, looking at the clock with blatant incredulity), what she would do once she finished cleaning, and finally her mind turned to Christmas.

"Christmas?" Draco said blankly, not having been paying attention until he heard that word and interrupted her.

"Yes, Christmas. I realize we probably won't be spending it _together_, but it might help the mood to decorate a little. Don't you agree?"

Draco mumbled a response, which she took for yes, and she beamed at him. "I would very much like a tree, although I'm not sure if we can get one. Do you think Mrs. Weasley would send one to us?"

Without waiting for a response from Draco, she said, "Yes, she probably will. I expect she'll want to send baubles, as well. If not, we could make some, but that won't be the same will it? Oh how fond I am of Christmas," she sighed, staring off into space, and finally quiet.

Draco silently toasted to that and took another swig of butterbeer.

"I rather liked what Sirius did when we spent Christmas here," she went on, far too soon. "He had Father Christmas hats and beards on those house elves in the corridor. Lots of candles, I think. They just make everything cozy. And peppermint. We'll, of course, avoid mistletoe, as it's not really my thing, and I should think not yours, either. We will have—"

"Granger," Malfoy said loudly, standing. Hermione smiled brightly at him and said, "Yes?"

"I'm going to take some food down to Flaherty. You can resume your planning when I come back." _Oh dear god, woman, please don't…_

"Morrigan!" she exclaimed excitedly. "We can celebrate Christmas with her!"

Draco raised a very demeaning eyebrow. "You want to celebrate Christmas with a Death Eater instead of your friends?"

"Not really, no, but perhaps Christmas is just what she needs! If she were to experience the joy that an _innocent _Christmas can provide, maybe she'll come over to our side."

"Granger, I can assure you, she doesn't want your help, nor your pity."

"Of course not," Hermione sniffed. "Which is why we shall shove it down her throat." She stood, took the plate of food from Draco's hand and a butterbeer from the cabinet, chilled it, and descended into the basement. Draco smirked at her retreating back, knowing that Morrigan would chuck every pitying, condescending idea back into Hermione's well meaning, but naïve, face.

He sat contentedly in the chair, sipping at the bottle, wishing heartily for something a bit stronger if he was going to get through the Christmas season with Granger and her enormous head—filled to the bursting with ideas to make them chummy. He glowered at the idea of being "chummy" with Granger, taking another swig from the bottle. He checked his watch to make sure Hermione hadn't been down there long. It would be typical of Flaherty to trick Granger into handing over her wand momentarily. After ten minutes, Draco stood, stretching, and pulling his wand out, prepared to go after them. He took his time with this. If Flaherty managed to get a few hexes off on Granger, he wouldn't mind terribly.

Draco was at the stairs, his hand on the doorknob, when the door opened with such force, he jumped backwards a few steps. Hermione was back, her face flushed and swelled with tears. She was sobbing audibly, her hand on two identical pieces of the broken plate and an empty bottle. She threw all three into the garbage, then leaned over the counter, crying. Draco watched her then asked in what he hoped was a soothing tone, "What did she say?"

Hermione shook her head, and Draco strode forward, turning her forcibly around and shaking her shoulders. "What did she say to you?" he snapped.

Hermione shook her head and sniveled, "She's _awful_. It was as if she only understand how to talk nasty…"

Draco dropped his hands quickly and turned away. For some reason, Granger's tears were fueling his hatred for Morrigan, which had already been quite strong. He stopped at the basement door and said without turning, "She's just an animal, Granger. She doesn't understand anything but pain, hunger, and anger. Don't let her words get to you."

He opened the door and was gone, leaving Hermione surprised at his easy defense of her. She had known that he hadn't really been listening to her as she went on and on, but she couldn't easily share things with Ginny at the moment, and as Malfoy was the only outlet she had, she had let loose completely. She had known, as well, that his teeth were clenched through her entire speech. She thought momentarily (her parents' words echoing in her head), _Oh dear, if he doesn't stop that, someone's going to be a toothless young man._

Picturing this briefly, Hermione laughed a bit, the image of a toothless Draco Malfoy--trying to smirk with the same amount of cheeky confidence required in all his smirks--prominent in her mind.

* * *

Draco stepped on the landing, his eyes landing on the sneering Morrigan on the table. A pile of linguini lay on the floor, and it appeared to be every bit that had originally been sent down there. With a growl, Draco pointed his wand at Morrigan and her pert smile evaporated. She suddenly looked passive, as if that were the default expression between rage and self-satisfaction. "Do it, Malfoy," she said, her voice low. "It will just prove how weak you are." 

Draco dropped the wand to his side then strode in on her, his face angry. Her expression turned to that smug half-smile he had learned to hate over the past months. He wanted so much to destroy her at that moment. She was an abomination, a creature that should never have been created. "What did you say to her, Flaherty?"

She laughed in his face. "Why do you care? Does little Draco have a crush on the Mudblood? You know what I do to creatures like her?"

"She's nothing to me—but you're filth and you're not worth her pity." These words echoed familiarly in his mind, and his lip curled at his own wording, and his mind lashed out at Morrigan. He pushed her off the table in frustration, and she landed hard against the wall. "You're a brutal animal, an atrocity, Flaherty."

"Then why don't you just _kill me_!" she screamed up at him, her eyes wide with intense hatred. The transformation was alarming, and it would have caused grown Muggles to wet themselves. Her fingers raked the air for a piece of Draco, but he held her grasping wrists away from him.

"You will die soon, Flaherty, and then your body will be nothing but dust upon the wind. Everyone will remember you as Voldemort's _pet _and they will say how the only thing you knew was a single word: _Crucio_. They will talk about how stupid you were and how Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could have caught you wandless. How you betrayed the Dark Lord's secrets under so little a thing as Veritaserum. And then they will laugh."

"I hate you!" she bellowed up at him. Blood was spotted on her face from her hands that had clutched her head following her crash against the wall; her eyes had taken on the shape of a mad-woman's—a perfect roundness that looked alien compared to their previous almond shape; and she was foaming at the mouth.

"You are nothing but a _demon_, Flaherty. A hideous, ugly demon with orders and loyalty--too stupid to know when to fight or run. Too stupid to know whom to trust. And this," he said, surrounding her head with his hands, "is your self-made hell." He pushed her away from him and wiped his hands disgustedly on his robes. He cleaned up the mess of noodles and tomato sauce, knowing that the basement was already plunged in squalor and didn't need more vermin.

He climbed the stairs elegantly and tossed his head in Flaherty's eyesight.

How she hated him. All she could think of was his angry face and his strong hands…. His face though…so terrible…was he right? She tried to remember any time that she had felt anything but boredom, rage, and self-pleasure. Was there anything else? Had she ever laughed sincerely? She tried to think back to her childhood, but the memories were a blur of violence and wishful thinking. _Oh god, don't hurt me, please don't touch me. Don't touch Mummy, don't hurt my mummy… _A picture of a woman floated in her mind. She was beautiful, with a face very much like her own. Her hair was brown instead of black, and her skin was a crisp white, as opposed to the creamier peach of Morrigan's own. But she was so similar, and she looked so happy…until she didn't look happy, and then Morrigan had cried. She couldn't remember why this happened; it had been such a long time since she had cried. She remembered, though, that tears were supposed to be warm. Not freezing cold.

* * *

Hermione watched Malfoy exit the basement, his face tight. He looked at her momentarily, then turned away and went up the stairs. _That was weird_, Hermione thought. 

She spent the rest of the day cleaning. Every time she finished a task, it seemed that it had only gotten dirtier. She might discover more doxies, or find a colony of dust bunnies (which looked to Hermione like they were having a lovely time procreating more little clouds of dust) in a particularly difficult place to reach. She was bitten severely on the hand by a nasty trophy for "Best Decoration with Muggle Body Parts." She assumed that it was enchanted only to bite Muggleborns, as she had seen Malfoy handle it plenty of times un-maimed.

At nine, she finally sat down to read from the _Prophet_, and found that it blazed an alarming front cover story, although it was short and rambling.

"**Death Toll Increases"**

"Ministry officials have reported Death Eater-related deaths have recently increased by fifteen percent. It was also mentioned that the Ministry knows precisely why but cannot do a thing to change. This reporter managed to discover that You-Know-Who is not feeling particularly vindictive but encouraging his followers to help find a disciple very important to his organization. It is not known who this individual is, but we can hope that some sort of resolution comes soon, before the death toll increases again. Once more the Ministry encourages that…_(cont. pg 6)_"

Hermione wondered why she hadn't been contacted, but realized that the members of the Order (and likewise, the Weasley household) probably believed that she had been closely following the paper, thus informing her would be redundant. _Still, _she thought irritably, _it would be nice to have first-hand information._

Malfoy walked into the kitchen, and Hermione looked up. "Have you seen the paper?" she asked him, and he glanced down at the headline. Shrugging, she turned to the pantry, looking for the chilled linguini.

"You're just going to shrug this off?!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I expected it would happen. Flaherty may be useless in the field, but she hears _a lot_. I wouldn't be surprised if Potter only managed to sap half her information, as Veritaserum allows for no ambiguity."

Hermione bit her lip. "Wouldn't it be better to just send her back or kill her?" she asked him.

Draco slopped some linguini in a bowl. "No. This is a victory over the Dark Lord, whether he begins killing more or not. To send her back would be admitting defeat, and to kill her would make us too close to them. We just allow them to believe she's never coming back. _Then _we put her in prison for the rest of her life."

"Still, is there any way to prevent the sudden increase of deaths?"

Draco shrugged, taking a bite of linguini and swallowing. "No. He was talking about upping the attacks anyway, before we left. That was why he had us on the Potter mission."

"Uh huh. That makes sense _how_?"

Draco sighed audibly and put his fork back in the bowl. "He's getting tired of the war. He wants to get Potter, and kill as much resistance as possible, as fast as possible. He wants Flaherty because he thinks that first--she has information that could be dangerous. And second--that she might be able to help him kill Potter. Flaherty has never screwed up. Never. It makes her sound too extreme to be possible, but the Dark Lord places high esteem in Flaherty because she's never questioned his word, or said the wrong thing, or betrayed him in the slightest. Plus, she's got everything he values." Draco began counting on his hand. "Unquestioning loyalty, absolutely pure blood, steadfast knowledge of magic, the utmost ability for neutrality, and limited understanding of the light."

"But wouldn't some of those hinder her ability to be _completely _faithful to the Dark Lord?" she asked.

Draco furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Her knowledge, you said, was steadfast. But if she was smart, she might remember the wrong thing and become a liability."

"Ah, yes, which is why most his favorites aren't known for their common sense. The Dark Lord changes favorites like he changes socks--if he wore them, that is. He probably would have gotten bored with Flaherty in time because she never gives him any reason to change his attitude for her—she's as steadfast as the sunrise in her loyalty. The Dark Lord loves change. It's been his constant friend for many years."

"Oh," Hermione said shortly, then summoned a bowl and the linguini dish. Both landed in front of her gracefully, and she scooped some linguini for herself. She heated it up, and then slurped thoughtfully for the rest of the meal. Draco hovered some leftovers down the stairs afterwards to Morrigan, then shut the door on her, leaving her alone in the dark with her thoughts and new emotions.

Hermione continued. "And with her penchant for neutrality, does that mean she's a good Occlumens?"

"She's _exceptional_," Draco admitted. "I don't know where she learned it. Still, she's not perfect. As I've said, she's terrible in the field. She can't think on her feet. Everything requires some amount of thought. And she wasn't made for battle. She was made for the enforcement of power. She's a perfect little toy for the Dark Lord. He says sit, she sits; he says stand, she stands; he says jump, she asks how high."

"If she wasn't such a hateful thing, I might pity her."

"Don't," Draco told her shortly. "She chose her life, and now it's too late for her. She's so far gone—and I mean that she's insane—it's impossible for her to change."

Draco Malfoy hated to wait. It was one of his least favorite pastimes. And right now, he was waiting for the Department of Human Transfiguration to approve his request to become an Animagi. He had finally settled upon the red fox, although the snow leopard and wolf had been mightily tempting. He had reasoned that no matter how awesome, a snow leopard was in no way practical for his life, and wolves weren't nearly as independent as he himself was. However, the time the Ministry would take to process his request would be double that of a normal citizen—mostly because of the war and his reputation as a former Death Eater.

So, with no more to study about Human Transfiguration, Draco fell into boredom, going about the house and looking for something to do. This proved, of course, difficult, because all books had been donated to Hogwarts' library, thanks to some noble notion of Potter's, and all the interesting Dark Arts objects had been safely locked away for awhile, due to the Order's tendency to attract victims for the said objects into the house. Draco was now devoid of entertainment, besides watching Granger clean, which was boring anyway, as well. If she had any sort of figure, he might find it amusing to watch her, but she still had the body of a prepubescent teenage girl.

By the third day of this tedious boredom, Draco went down at lunch to give Morrigan her food. Since the incident three days prior, he had been levitating her food down the stairs, too disgusted to look at Flaherty. With nothing better to do than have a go at her ego, he went down into the underground prison with a plate of sandwiches. Morrigan didn't even speak to him as he handed her food to her, but instead ate the food quietly and meekly, with none of the confidence she had when usually around him.

"I—I want to tell you something," she muttered, her voice emotionless.

Draco looked at her through critical eyes. What could she possibly have to tell him?

"I want to tell you where I came from," she whispered, and Draco reeled mentally. She was _volunteering information_? What on earth had happened those three days?

"Alright," Draco said, sitting on the stairs and looking expectantly at her. She sat on the table, her hands beneath her legs, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began to speak_  
_

* * *

_Morrigan's mother was named Cliodhna, and she was one of the fairest women the world had ever seen. She married early in her life, secure in her beauty and perfect pedigree. Her husband loved her and they conceived a daughter—Morrigan. Morrigan's father worked for the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Mysteries. His dangerous job led to his disappearance in a Romanian forest two months before Morrigan was born._

_Heartbroken, Cliodhna left the wizarding world with her daughter in tow and returned to Ireland. Without a job, and only her looks, Cliodhna turned to a Muggle man named John Fisher for a living. At first he had seemed perfect. He loved Cliodhna with such a fierce love that neither could be without each other's company for more than a week. Cliodhna hid her wand for her love and never spoke of magic to John, who was avidly Catholic and thought of witchcraft as "heathenish" and a blemish upon God's green earth. Even though he didn't believe in magic, he did believe that some people practiced this pagan art still, and they should be punished in the harshest means possible._

_Horrifyingly, Morrigan started to show extreme promise as a witch at the age of four, causing things to hover at eye level with some concentration, unaware the significance of her abilities. John Fisher immediately beat his adopted child, telling her never to do that again. Morrigan, unsure of what was wrong with something she barely understood, began to do accidental magic so often that Cliodhna often hid her daughter when John Fisher was within the house._

_After two months of anti-magic hell, Cliodhna finally broke down and told her husband that it wasn't Morrigan's fault that these things were happening—she was a witch by birth, despite Cliodhna's attempts to ignore her daughter's power. John Miller asked Cliodhna if she had always been aware of Morrigan's "freakish capabilities." Ashamed, Cliodhna admitted that yes, she did, and had known from conception that it was nearly impossible that Morrigan wouldn't become a witch, since both her parents had been magic-wielders._

_Furious, John Miller began to beat his wife enthusiastically, with little Morrigan watching wide-eyed in a corner. Suddenly John Miller rounded on her, screaming about how she was the devil's child and that she didn't deserve to live. He hit her, as well, giving the girl quite a scare and inducing an eternal fear of the man. She didn't understand why her father, who had always seemed to love her despite her "problems," could treat her in such a way._

_Instead of kicking mother and child out of his house, John Miller insisted that they stay so that he could purge them of their disease. He began a strict regime of discipline, pain, and degradation. Cliodhna should break her wand. Morrigan should get a burn on the back of the hand for each time she did accidental magic. Perhaps if her conscious wanted it enough, her subconscious would stop making her do the bad things. But whenever Morrigan was extremely angry or sad, the electricity would flicker, or the light bulbs in the house would pop simultaneously._

_John Miller would punish Cliodhna frequently, making Morrigan watch and telling her that if she ever became like her mother, this was what would happen. "Don't hurt Mummy!" Morrigan would scream. "I'll be normal! I'll be normal!" But she couldn't stop it; she couldn't stop her magic, no matter how hard she tried. In fact, the harder she tried, the more it seemed to act up._

_At the age of five, Morrigan had learned to fear her adoptive father. But even more, she had learned to hate him. Her father was the best example for these things. His fear of her magic and his hatred of her power formed a mirror image in her own understanding—a fear of the back of his hand and a hatred of his power over her. More than ever she wished she could go back to the days when he protected her and her mummy, but now he couldn't protect her from himself. And her mummy had let him do it to her. She hated her now, too. _

_One night she slept fitfully in her bed and there was screaming from her parents' bedroom. And then it stopped. A man entered the room. Morrigan screamed loudly, and the windows shattered with a crash. The man dropped his mask, and he revealed an ancient man with silver hair and bushy eyebrows. "Hush, child, I'm to take you to Dirving."_

_And to Dirving he took her. Dirving turned out to be a wizard's school specializing in the Dark Arts—hidden and extremely secret. The teachers were cold and calculating, quick to dole out punishment, and they insisted that the students refrain from any type of frivolity. "Holiday" and "crush" were alien phrases at Dirving. The students (all of one hundred) spent their time from ages five to fifteen developing a thorough knowledge of the Dark Arts. Students needed to aptly use the three Unforgivables and properly duel before graduation at fifteen. After fifteen, they went home to their parents, who put them to work._

_Being the only orphan,__Morrigan had no prospects at all when she turned fifteen. Then she heard of a community for those who wished to serve under a man that meant to bring Purebloods back to power. Unsure of whether she would be accepted, Morrigan went to her mentor and savior from her house, Professor Knickl. He told her for the first time that her biological father had worked under the same man she wished to learn about. In time, the Dark Lord might accept her as a follower, if she proved herself and told him her true surname._

_Morrigan left immediately for Parselart, and found that the Dark Lord Voldemort indeed encouraged youth to join him, although he refused to brand them until they came of age. Morrigan insisted, time after time, on showing him her worth. Voldemort doted upon her, for she was in awe of his power, his similar hatred for Muggles, and his understanding of her past. At the age of seventeen, she offered her service, and went through the most painful of initiations conceived. _

_Morrigan stood before Voldemort, who looked down on her with little interest. "You're too young."_

"_I am stronger than any of your followers, My Lord," she told him, her voice firm but obedient._

"_That well may be, but your youth is not forgotten."_

"_No, My Lord."_

"_If you may prove yourself, then I will consider the matter."_

_Morrigan looked up at him, her eyes thoughtful. "The greatest test of devotion," she blurted, and his eyes widened slightly, understanding immediately what she meant._

"_You cannot do it. No witch with so little discipline as yours could possibly do this."_

"_I can, My Lord. My soul is loyal entirely to you."_

"_If you fail, your fate will be worse than death. Insanity is the only other alternative."_

"_I will do it," she told him firmly, and she prostrated herself, her nose pushed to the marble of the floor, her eyes squeezed shut._

_Voldemort paused, then said with terrible force, "CRUCIO!"_

_Morrigan's entire body clenched in horrific pain, the likes of which she didn't know possible. She grit her teeth and closed her vocal cords, clenching every muscle. She would not scream, she would not scream, she would not scream, she would not scream…._

_It went on for what seemed years, and suddenly it was done, and Voldemort reached down to pick her up. "You have done well, child. Welcome…"_

_Her lack of emotion and dull rage helped her in a way the passion most Death Eaters possessed couldn't, and she quickly rose through the ranks with her dispassionate ability to murder and torture. Although Voldemort would never waste her on the battlefield, he certainly used her to dispose of particularly irritating nuisances. Never before had Morrigan felt quite this sure of _anything. _The Dark Lord knew how awful Muggles were, how they treated their kind. He knew that the world ought to be purged of them and their descendants. Morrigan turned down that road and had never looked back._

* * *

At the end of her story, Morrigan watched Draco's reaction carefully. Her current state was, although inexcusable, comprehensible. How she had managed to turn that far down the path of evil, he hadn't the slightest idea. Surely every human was born with certain defaults of emotion…? Potter had the same lot in life—uncaring, abusive Muggle relatives. But he had understood that not all Muggles could possibly be bad. Still, it sounded like Morrigan had remained unexposed to the truth of things for her entire life—resulting in a simplistic, childlike mind that could only register one emotion at a time. Morrigan had never been consciously happy beside instinctual satisfaction. She didn't know what made her happy, or what made others happy. How could she _possibly _distinguish between right and wrong? 

Malfoy was obviously disturbed, but he nodded to her, knowing that despite her ability to narrate, she couldn't possibly understand the implications accompanying the details.

"Malfoy?" Morrigan said, her voice soft. "Can I come up for Chris Mass?" she asked, her voice stumbling over the syllables and misinterpreting the meaning. Draco looked doubtful, but she said, "I will be good. I just…I want to get out of this wretched basement. I want to breath healthy air and see another face. And if it means being nice to that girl, and apologizing, I'll do it."

It didn't sound very sincere to Draco, but he figured Hermione would take an apology when given. He shrugged and said, "I'll talk to her." He stood, leaving Morrigan frozen to her seat with relief.

Draco closed the door behind him and entered the kitchen, rather numb. Hermione was at the sink, mixing soap and water for dishes. "You were down there for a long time," she noted. "Did she go wild or something?"

"No," Malfoy said tonelessly. "She apologized to you, and she wants to join us for Christmas."

Hermione turned and stared at him like he was insane. "Are you crazy?" she snapped. "There is no way I'm wasting my Christmas for an ungrateful wretch."

Draco put his hands up. "Look, I learned some very interesting things down there, like why she acts the way she does, and she doesn't know any better. Besides, she's an eager learner. She finished her magical education at _fifteen_."

Hermione was unimpressed.

"Look, regardless of whether you're going to do it or not, I'm going to urge you to consider it for a moment, or go talk to her, or at least try her out on it. She's pathetic, and a monster. But I have a feeling that if wanted to, you could change her."

Flattered, Hermione squeaked, "Really?"

"Yes," Draco snapped, annoyed at her girlishness. "But good god, don't overwhelm her. And I am to be in _no way involved_."

Hermione smiled and said, "We'll see." 

* * *

A/N: This story is complete. I will be submitting three chapters per week. Please review or I won't update. Thanks, Fyreskye and Cornellia (Penname: Dark Lady of R.) for beta'ing me with patience and care for the story I have woven.  



	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four: Humbug, Bah, and Ugh**

* * *

"I can't believe I'm doing this." Draco Malfoy was standing atop a ladder with a particularly vindictive scowl on his face. "You cannot possibly have convinced me to do this, Granger." 

Hermione had done a great deal of cleaning, finally making the house somewhat presentable—it had taken her a little over a week. Another week had been devoted to talking to friends and family via owl, insisting that they send Christmas decorations for her preparations of beautifying Number Twelve. Lupin had shown up with a large tree on the last day of the second week, apparently checking in on the teenagers and making sure they hadn't destroyed each other, or the prisoner. Pleased with what he found (and pleased that Hermione had done more in the course of two weeks than any person had been able to do since Mrs. Black had died), he stayed a little longer than he had anticipated, enjoying luncheon with Hermione and Draco. Draco remained sullen and quiet for most of the meal, while Hermione chatted with Lupin in a manner that disgusted Draco.

Remus left a box of baubles and the tree behind. Hermione insisted upon putting it up immediately and decorating it. Draco had watched her as she levitated it into the stand and began putting on the baubles. She then realized that she had forgotten the strand of popcorn and cranberries she had strung to put around the tree, so she was forced to take down every ornament and then string the tree. However, she found that this wasn't going to work out with tinsel, as the popcorn and cranberries were overpowered by the bright gold stuff. So, she had to step back and look at the tree and decide whether she wanted the strand of cranpops (as Draco called them, to her distaste at his lack of devotion) or the tinsel. Finally she decided upon cranpops—her first choice. All the while, she hummed Christmas carols to herself. Malfoy then understood why she was smart—because there was no possible way she could take up singing as a profession. He mentioned this to her snidely, which caused her to start singing the carols obnoxiously loud, reminding Draco of the Weasley twins. When he told her this, she shut up promptly.

At the very end, she stepped back and viewed her work proudly. Draco had to admit (not out loud, of course) that she had done a very nice job. She bent down and picked the glittering star out of the box and thrust it into his hands. "What's this?" he asked her stupidly, looking down at the ornament.

"You're going to put it on top of the tree," she replied cheerily.

Draco dropped it back in the box, turning to leave. "Oh no you don't," Hermione said, scrambling around the couch to cut him off from the exit. "You're not going anywhere unless you put that star on top of the tree."

"Or what?" Draco snarled angrily.

"Or I'll hex you," she returned smugly, raising her wand to his eyes.

With a growl, Draco vaulted himself over the couch and grabbed the star. He reached up to place it at the top of the tree. Dammit. Just out of reach. Hermione summoned a ladder wordlessly from against the wall. "That won't be necessary," he snapped, but she smiled widely.

"Come on, Draco, get in the Christmas spirit and do it conventionally," Hermione said impishly.

Draco crossed his arms across his chest. "Absolutely not," he refused. "And don't call me Draco."

She held her wand up, gripping the ladder so it wouldn't fall. "Do it, Draco."

With an additional snarl, he grabbed the ladder and opened it.

And now, as he stood at the top of the ladder and Hermione had brought a camera from her room, he refused to even go near the tree. "Come on," Hermione urged him. "Just so I can prove that I saw Malfoy do something Christmas-y."

Draco's scowl became fiercer, while Hermione's voice became whinier. "Pleeeease?" she pleaded.

Finally, as quickly as he could, he leaned forward and tried to put the star on the tip of the top branch. However, the hole was small, and with a grimace, he started to shove it on violently. With a flash, the camera went off. He glared at her from the top of the ladder, then came down, finally sure the star would stay on.

Both crossed their arms and looked up at the top of the tree. His tussle with its tip had bent the tree and so the star was crooked, but Hermione looked pleased. "Now for the other decorations."

"There's more?" Draco screeched in a freakishly girly voice.

Hermione threw him a funny look. "Of course, silly. And now that you've started, you can't just get out of decorating."

Reluctantly, Draco followed Hermione to the kitchen.

* * *

"So let me get this straight: We're going to make cookies and _not _eat them?" Draco drawled. 

"Yes, they're to be decorations."

"Why not just use a Freshening Charm?" he asked, his tone irked.

"Because then they won't get hard and we won't be able to hang them up."

"And Muggles do this every Christmas?"

"Yes," Hermione affirmed.

Draco's eyes widened in incredulity. "That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "Christmas is a holiday. Holidays are supposed to be fun. You can ridicule my fun, but then you're not having any yourself."

She rolled the dough, hurrying so the heat wouldn't turn them to a gooey mass. Draco was watching her with horrified fascination as she made the inedible cookies. She looked up at him, wrinkling her nose. "What's your problem?"

"Muggles are demented," he noted with a wide-eyed shake of the head.

Hermione rolled her eyes then picked up a stray piece of dough and tossed it carelessly at his head. It landed in his hair, despite his attempt to dodge the missile. He franticly searched for the dough, glaring at her. She giggled behind her hand at his desperate attempts to remove it. Finally he stopped and took out his wand and removing it quickly. "Now you figure out you've got a wand," she sniggered.

"Oh yeah, Granger?"

Two pieces of dough flew up her nose.

She screamed and began to try picking the dough out of her nose. He smirked at her, sauntering out of the kitchen.

Hermione's mix for candles was a much sought-after gift from relatives. Every year she had been at home with her parents, she experimented with fruits and herbs to get just the right mixture of smells and the highest concentration of scent so that the candles would fill an entire room, not just an approximate area. Perhaps her magical abilities had helped with this. Magical or not, Hermione's candles became her own Christmas tradition. At the stove, she mixed a pot of wax. Draco sat at the table, his expression defiant. "Why again are you _making _candles? Why don't you buy some?"

"Because," Hermione reiterated, "it's a tradition."

"Tradition is stupid…" Draco muttered quietly and Hermione shot him a look of pure venom.

"You can pick the scent," Hermione told him. Draco turned to look at the picks. Hermione's parents had sent pineapple, dried apple, orange, banana, mint, lemon balm, pine leaf, vanilla, cinnamon, and an array of other smelly plant parts. Draco browsed through the scented objects and finally settled upon cinnamon and pear, then handed it to Hermione.

The witch wrinkled her nose at the pick. "That's an odd selection."

Draco shrugged. "You told me to choose."

With a frown, Hermione broke the cinnamon stick apart and then placed it upon a chopping board. With a flick of the wand a smooth rock ground it to miniscule pieces. She dumped half of the ground cinnamon into the wax, pouring the other half into a plastic bag. She then repeated the process with the pear, only pouring the juice into the wax. She allowed the wax to simmer over the fire, occasionally stirring it. "So how does Draco Malfoy celebrate Christmas?" she asked Draco, folding her arms.

"I don't," Draco told her shortly.

"How _did _Draco Malfoy celebrate Christmas?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Why do you care, Granger?"

"Well, I want to know. We _are _spending it together. And I want to see if there's any way I can make it a bit fun for you."

Draco glared at the ground. "You can't."

"Why not?" Hermione asked indignantly. "I'm just as good as anybody."

"My mother and father?" Draco demanded.

Hermione blushed guiltily. "Sorry, that's not what I meant…"

"We used to drink Spanish hot chocolate," Draco interrupted suddenly. "Or that's what we called it. Dark chocolate melted into boiled milk and mixed with cinnamon. It was the first thing we'd do. Mother would wake me up then drag me to their bedroom, and I would sit in between them in the bed. Weensy would bring us our mugs, and we'd just—" Draco looked up at Hermione and frowned. "I shouldn't have told you that."

"No, I'm glad you did," she said. "No offense, but sometimes it's hard to remember that you're human. That you had parents and holidays and—" Hermione colored and stopped midsentence.

"What gave you that impression?" Draco asked tightly.

"Well, you sort of seem like…like you think those things are below you. I mean, you didn't want to tell me about it, so I almost think that you never enjoyed it. I mean, what else am I to think?"

"Did it occur to you that it's just hard to talk about my parents to a stranger?"

"I understand it being hard to talk about your parents, but I'm not going to judge you, Malfoy," Hermione told him quietly. "I'm not like your old friends. I don't expect anything from you. I'll just take what you give me."

Draco's throat constricted. "Your well meaning aside, it's difficult to tell you about these things. You'll never understand the relationship I had with my parents because you know my parents as snobby Purebloods. And they were. But they were my parents, too, and despite any outward prejudices they might have had, they loved me and took care of me until my care was out of their hands. And you have to understand that I don't believe you can understand that."

Hermione's guilt felt tenfold, because she realized that she _had _judged him a lot, despite her protest against such a statement. _Poor misunderstood Malfoy_, she scoffed, but another side of her snapped at the nasty one to shut up. _He's human, and even more, despite a lifetime of prejudice, he's managed to turn out all right_.

"Malfoy, how can you have changed from a prickish little pain to a mature young man?" Hermione asked, shaking her head.

"Don't assume I've changed," Malfoy warned her. "But war will do anything to you."

"Did you actually believe all that Pureblood crap?" Hermione asked him in amazement.

"Yes, I did. A part of me still does. Wouldn't you find it 'fascinating,' Granger, to be able to trace your bloodlines back thousands of years? I'm a rare creature with perfect blood. I may be no better than you otherwise, Granger, but even you must admit that you'd like to be able to call yourself Pureblood."

"Not if it makes me a priggish idiot," Hermione retorted. "But yes, it would be nice to lay claim to some history," she acquiesced softly. "That does _not _mean I am jealous of you, Malfoy," she added stubbornly, and Draco laughed heartily, putting his hands up.

"Message received. And you are aware that your wax is emitting smoke, aren't you?"

Hermione turned with a shriek and found, to her relief, that a piece of fabric had been burnt on the inner edge of the pot—rather than something far worse. Her wax was ready, though, and she poured the substance in a rolled and taped piece of cardboard, placed on wax paper, with a wick through the center. The wax slid out of the pan smoothly, and the smell filled the room. Hermione breathed in. "What a good combination, Draco. Nice pick."

"Told you," Draco told her smugly.

With Drying and Hardening spells, Hermione and Draco managed to create quite a few assorted candles of every scent and finished them within three hours—a record for the number of candles, Hermione said. The two then placed the candles around the tree in the sitting room in various places. They lit them, and then stood back to admire their work. All in all, they had done quite a nice job, and Hermione said so. Draco actually agreed with her, cocking his head to the side.

"Shall we show Morrigan?" he asked Hermione and she gaped at him. "Christmas is only in a week. Might as well give her time to mentally ready herself for something as good as this."

Hermione shrugged. "If you want to get her and stuff, fine."

Draco left, drawing his wand. At the bottom of the stairs, Morrigan gawked at him. "It's not suppertime yet!" she exclaimed.

"How do you know?" Draco asked her.

"I'm not hungry yet," she replied with a shrug.

"It's seven," Draco told her. "And Granger wanted to show you something." Morrigan stared. "She's finished decorating and she wants you to see what it looks like."

"Decorating?" Morrigan echoed.

"Yes, decorating," Draco told her impatiently. "D'you want to go or not?"

Morrigan shrugged apathetically, standing and walking from her corner. With a backward glance, she climbed the stairs. At the top, she stared around. "Where?" she asked.

"Come on," Draco muttered, leading her to the sitting room. She entered the room and gaped.

Hermione beamed at Morrigan. "Do you like it?" Hermione asked the girl who turned and looked at her.

"Like it?" she asked. "I don't get it."

Hermione laughed. "It's for Christmas!"

Morrigan turned red at having been laughed at.

"She's never celebrated Christmas, Hermione," Draco said quickly. "She doesn't know what it's about."

Hermione's eyes turned as round as saucers. "Never celebrated Christmas?" she inquired incredulously. "No wonder—"

"No wonder what?" Morrigan asked.

"Nothing," Hermione said. "Do you want to hear about Christmas?"

Morrigan looked uncomfortable. "Not to be…rude…but I have to refrain and ask if I can take a shower instead."

Hermione looked offended for a moment then exclaimed, "Oh!" She seemed to notice the raggedy state of Morrigan's robes and her grimed face for the first time. Morrigan nodded slowly.

"Of course," Hermione said. "Then I'll tell you about Christmas." Hermione ran upstairs and picked a pair of her own robes from her trunk, a couple towels, shampoo, and a bar of soap.

When she came back, she handed all this to Morrigan. "Oh, you'll also need…." Hermione ran upstairs again and returned with a bundle of unmentionables and handed this to Morrigan. "The robes might be a bit too big, but I think you'll be comfortable. The shower's this way…" She led her to the bathroom then showed her how the shower worked. Without thanking her, Morrigan stared at Hermione until Hermione backed out the bathroom and locked the door. With a sigh, she leaned against the wall and waited for Morrigan to come out. Draco stood beside Hermione, watching the door.

"She's something else, isn't she?" he asked Hermione.

"I'm going to help her," the girl told him determinedly. "She needs it."

"As long as you know what you're getting into," Draco said gloomily.

"I can do it," Hermione replied resolutely. "I have great faith in her."

"_Why_?" Draco asked her cynically.

"Because she's human," Hermione said. "And because anyone can learn."

"Anyone," Draco repeated.

"Yes," Hermione told him.

"Whatever, Granger."

After an hour, a very soggy Morrigan stepped out, her dirty laundry in a bundle and the toiletries in her wet towel. "Here's my laundry," Morrigan said, shoving them into Hermione's hands. "Could you get them cleaned soon?" This seemed very demanding to Hermione.

"I'm not your servant!" she protested, dropping the worn robes on the ground.

"What good are you, then?" Morrigan asked, raising her eyebrows coolly.

Hermione's arm seemed to have its own mind as it swung and hit Morrigan with the back of her hand. Morrigan's face turned to a white mask of self-righteous fury. "How dare you lay hand on me, Mudblood!" she hissed.

"That's enough!" Draco bellowed, stepping between the two girls. "You," he said to Morrigan, "will keep your tongue inside your mouth or I will cut it from your head. And you," he added, rounding on Hermione, "will not use violence to prove her point."

"Prove her point!" Hermione shrieked. "How did I—"

"Silence!" Draco snapped imperiously. "You won't touch her again, is that understood?"

Hermione stared at Draco defiantly, and then nodded her head reluctantly. Then Draco turned, aiming his wand pointedly at Morrigan. "_Silencio!_" In fury, Morrigan tried to protest, but nothing came forth from her mouth, and she folded her arms across her chest crossly.

"Now, we're going to proceed to the sitting room and Hermione is going to narrate the significance of Christmas. And you will listen, Morrigan."

Hermione and Morrigan were surprised at the new person that had taken over Draco. Never had he seemed so…fatherly. It was rather scary.

Hermione sat on the couch, and Draco gestured at Morrigan to sit beside her. The girl's lip curled unpleasantly and he scowled fiercely. With an even nastier look, Morrigan plopped down on the opposite side. Draco looked down at her and said clearly, "You will use your tongue with civility or you will not use it at all. _Finite Incantatem._"

Morrigan's throat cleared and she was once again able to speak. She turned and looked at Hermione dismissively. "Do begin," she sniffed.

Disliking her tone, Hermione made a face but said, "Christmas is a Christian holiday, devoted to the birth of Jesus Christ. However, many of the traditions are reminiscent of pagan traditions, such as a twelve-day celebration, a tree, and many of the foods eaten on Christmas. What Christmas is usually celebrated for, however, is to give gifts to friends and loved ones. On Christmas morning, children inspect their gifts from Father Christmas, then receive them from their parents. Relatives come over for more gift-giving, and you have Christmas Dinner. Sometimes it comprises roast beef, or duck, boar, chicken…the list goes on. The point is that it's a holiday to share with your friends and family."

Hermione beamed at Morrigan, her attitude changed by her description of Christmas.

"It sounds revolting," Morrigan sneered.

Hermione looked staggered. "But _why_?"

"What has your family done to _earn _the gifts? What if the children are bad children? It makes no sense. It's just an excuse for a person to get more items they don't need."

"Morrigan, no one is bad on Christmas. And the point isn't to receive gifts, it's to give them."

"Don't call me Morrigan," Morrigan snapped, then added, "Why should you give gifts to your family?"

"Because most people love their family," Draco said quietly. Morrigan looked at him inquisitively. "Flaherty, you don't get it because you don't get what love is, because you're miserable and soulless. You will never understand because you're not smart enough."

"I am smart!" Morrigan snapped. "I understand it—"

"No you don't," Hermione said, catching on. "You'll never understand Christmas because you're not _good_ enough, not _independent _enough. The Dark Lord controls you so much that you've forgotten what it's like to think and understand without his mind."

"I can understand it!" Morrigan yelled, standing abruptly and clenching her fists at her sides. She looked wild, her hair rampant and her eyes rolling from Draco to Hermione. "I can! You'll see! I'll make this the best Christmas you have ever had! Just because I want to!"

With an angry snort, she turned from the room and went back down into the basement, shutting the door with a slam. Draco and Hermione exchanged smiles. "I do believe we've tricked her into celebrating Christmas," Hermione said lightly, her tone amused.

"Quite," Draco said, his smirk pleasant enough. "I think she's taken a step forward, don't you?"

"Yes," Hermione agreed laughingly. "Cider?"

Hermione woke the following morning to the quiet cooing of Hedwig. She sat up groggily and untied the parchment from Hedwig's leg. Hermione expected a letter from Harry, but instead it was one from Ron.

_Hermione—_

_Mum reckons I should ask you about now if you want to spend Christmas at the Burrow. We can come pick you up on the 24__th__, and if Malfoy needs to do something, Lupin reckons that a Sleeping Draught could keep our little friend out for a couple of days. I kind of laughed at the thought of administering Sleeping Draught to that wildcat. I bet Malfoy gets it full in the face. I'd like to see that. Ginny and Harry say hi. I caught them kissing under the mistletoe yesterday. They jumped apart like they'd been taking each other's clothing off. I wondered why they'd been sneaking around a lot lately. I bet you heard about the deaths increasing. I know you're probably feeling awful about that, but don't feel too bad. It's a rather unavoidable aspect of the war, don't you think? Anyway, that's all for now. I thought Pig might get lost in the storm that's coming, so I sent Hedwig. _

_Love,_

_Ron_

Hermione smiled at the letter, but she had to say no this year to Christmas. She was looking forward to spending time with Morrigan at the "best Christmas ever." She wrote a quick reply on the back of the parchment.

_Ron—_

_I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to decline your invitation this year. Our little friend has been promised a nice Christmas, and I'd rather like to give it to her. I think that we might perhaps be able to help her, you know? Christmas is a time for miracles, and I'm wishing that this might provide a miracle for her. I'll send your gifts in the post._

_Love from,_

_  
Hermione_

Satisfied, Hermione rolled this piece up, fed Hedwig an owl treat from a bag Harry had left, and then sent her out the window. She watched the bird until she could no longer see her, then closed the window and shivered. She dressed and went down to the kitchen.

Draco was awake, eating porridge (there was brown sugar on the top), and reading the _Prophet_. "Did that bird find its way into your room?" he asked her without looking up.

"Yes, thank you," Hermione replied. "Ron wanted to know if I was going to the Burrow for Christmas but I declined."

Draco shook his head, took a sip of his coffee and then said incredulously, "You're crazy."

Hermione shrugged, then looked down into his oatmeal bowl. "You Muggle-lover," she teased.

He scowled up at her and said, "I decided I liked it."

"Uh-huh."

Draco finished then took some cereal downstairs. Morrigan was waiting, as usual, but this time she asked, "Malfoy, would you get me a few sheets of parchment and ink?"

"I presume you'd like a quill with that, too."

"Naturally," she conceded with a roll of the eyes.

Draco left for a minute, and then was back with the requested supplies. "Is that all, Your Ladyship?"

"Yes, that's all, Basil, you may go now," she said, her tone light.

"Did you just make a joke?" Draco asked, his tone mockingly awed.

"Why, yes, I do believe I did," she replied, her eyes dancing. "Now begone, I have work to do!"

Draco left, rather curious of what it was she wished to do.

Hermione received another owl that afternoon, again sent via Hedwig. The owl seemed irritable, and Hermione received a rather sharp nip when she told the owl to wait momentarily, as she was tied up with a cleaning solution. Hermione dropped everything (figuratively) and hastily untied the scroll, sucking her finger painfully.

_Hermione—_

_What the hell are you doing? Is spending time with those two people more important than us? _Way to overreact, Ron, Hermione thought. No wonder the bird was angry. _Why would you choose to stay with her when we need you here? It's ridiculous! If I find out that Malfoy has anything to do with it, I'll—_something was scribbled out here—_be extremely angry._

_Ron_

Hermione rolled her eyes at this presumptuous piece of writing, then wrote on a different piece of parchment:

_Ron—_

_You have seriously overreacted. I just want to help our little friend, and if you can't understand that, then I would rather be spending time with someone that understands up front what my intentions and thoughts are. Have a good day!_

_Hermione_

Hermione exited the kitchen, her face clearly annoyed. She sat down on the couch of the sitting room with a heave, causing Malfoy to look up from his borrowed copy of _Hogwarts, A History_. "What's your problem?" he asked her.

"Ronald's mad because I chose to stay here for Christmas."

"I knew that would happen," he said with a sigh, looking back down at the book. "You should think before offending someone like that."

"I didn't realize I would offend him," Hermione protested. "I simply told him that it was important that I stay here and help Morrigan!"

"Granger, you don't know Weasley as well as you think you do. If you write that something you're doing, as an alternative to something with him, is important, than he's going to pull the meaning that you think it's more important than whatever you're going to do with him out of it."

Hermione got a blank look on her face and said, "What?"

"If you say that spending Christmas with me and Flaherty is important, than he'll assume you think it's more important than Christmas with him."

"Maybe it is!" Hermione retorted hotly. "Morrigan's soul is rather high on the list of priorities."

"Not to him."

"I'm not him!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Ah, but he _is _him. And what's important to him is he. Therefore, whatever is important to he, is important to him."

Hermione glared at him. "You're mad."

"I'm correct," he replied, going back to his book, while Hermione began to pout.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five: Writing For, But Not About, Christmas**

Morrigan sucked at her quill thoughtfully. She'd been thinking about writing something for Christmas for a very long time—six days, in fact—but she couldn't figure out about what precisely she wanted to write. She was rather fond of the idea that she should write a fairy tale for Hermione, but she only knew one, and that one was strange, incomprehensible. If Morrigan were to give a gift to the Mudblood, it would be something that Morrigan could understand and treasure for herself. That's what gifts were, Morrigan reasoned. If you give away something you don't care about, it's really just junking the object. So, in order to make this a good Christmas, she needed to give something from her being. The problem was, she didn't like the idea of giving something so personal to a Mudblood. Finally, another story (aside from the fairy tale) flitted into her mind, as if sent there by an omnipotent being. She put her quill to the paper and began to write.

She did not stop writing for an hour, and finally she read through the paper twice, checking for mistakes. Finding none, she tied the parchment into a scroll using the black ribbon with which she tied her hair. Malfoy's story took longer to conceive, though Morrigan didn't mind sharing as much with him. Instead of a tale, she wished to share a memory with him, but she couldn't think of anything appropriate for a gift. Suddenly she thought of a memory that was completely appropriate for a fellow Death Eater—active or not. Perhaps it wasn't a memory, but it was true, and she thought of it every day.

This one took a little longer to write, because she had to redraft and perfect the details. Finally pleased with her work, she tied it with a piece of twine. The two scrolls sat side by side on the table, their edges slightly bent by Morrigan's fervor as she leaned over the works and moved her left elbow up and down the pages. It almost looked better this way, Morrigan decided. She looked at the soot in the fireplace and decided to dip the edges in, giving the scrolls an archaic look.

Finally she was completely satisfied with what she saw. With a content nod of the head, she curled back into her corner and fell promptly asleep.

The next morning dawned, although Morrigan didn't know it until the Mudblood's exuberant shrieks woke her. Morrigan rolled over towards the wall and curled even farther into herself, but Granger rolled Morrigan back towards her. "Get up! It's Christmas!"

Morrigan sat up, rubbing her head and scowling fiercely "What time is it?" she grumbled.

Hermione looked at her watch. "Seven-thirty."

"Seven-thirty!" Morrigan echoed angrily. "I'm going back to sleep."

"You're not supposed to sleep on Christmas," Hermione told her smartly, and Morrigan stood.

"Fine, but I need to shower."

"First you'll open your gifts," Hermione told her, beaming.

"Gifts?" Morrigan said. "As in more than one?"

"Of course!" Hermione laughed. "You said it would be the best ever, and I decided to be a bit…elaborate."

Morrigan looked at her two puny scrolls. Something was edging into her thoughts and memories. Was it anger? No, it felt worse. Morrigan couldn't identify it, because the feeling was guilt and it had been quite a while since she had felt it.

She grabbed her two meager stories as she walked out, then headed up the stairs.

Hermione had done even more decorating, and the house was rather blinding with the huge array of candles perched on every flat surface. Draco was watching the girls from the doorway, grimacing at the rich abundance of the decor. "She woke you up?" he growled at Morrigan, who nodded irately. Draco rolled his eyes and then shuffled back into the sitting room.

Hermione beamed at Morrigan and motioned for her to follow Draco. Entering the room, Morrigan once again took in the tree. Draco was drinking coffee like it was going out of style, while Hermione went around the tree, picking the parcels out that were Morrigan's (there really was quite a few) and then placing them in front of her. Morrigan stared at them, unsure of what to do. Hermione nodded at her. "Open them!" she demanded, and Morrigan looked at Draco.

"Go on," he told her gruffly.

Morrigan gingerly untied the string and ripped the parcel paper, trying not to destroy it completely.

"You can rip it to shreds," Draco told her amusedly. "It's just paper."

Morrigan took this cue to yank the paper completely off the box, and then opened it. Inside laid a lovely cloak, red and bright. Morrigan's eyes momentarily lit up, pleased with the color. "Thank you!" she exclaimed, before she knew what she was saying. She clapped a hand over her mouth, ashamed that she'd just thanked a Mudblood. Hermione, on the other hand, looked delighted. "You're welcome!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Open the other ones!"

Morrigan opened the next box, a larger one and found inside four new sets of robes, in four colors—green, blue, black, and red. Another box held a blue cloak, and another had a new pair of boots. They were rather tall, three inches above her ankle, and black. Though not precisely stylish (which Morrigan fancied herself to be), they were comfortable and practical. One box held a great deal of socks, each one styling different designs from dragons to Christmas trees. The last, finally, was a book from Draco.

It read, _The Ancient Tales: A Script of European Myth and History_. Draco watched her face as she opened it, and this time it truly showed pleasure, uncontained and apparent. "This is amazing," she whispered.

"Your abilities as a story-teller did not fail to catch my attention," he explained. "It seemed an appropriate gift."

Morrigan blushed. "Thank you," she whispered, then she turned to Hermione. "Thank you, also."

Hermione, too, colored, her expression unreadable. "I have something for you, too," Morrigan said, her voice low. "It's not much, but it's…appropriate."

She handed the scrolls to each of them. Hermione handed it back to her, saying, "I want you to read it."

Morrigan was taken aback. "Read it? Aloud?"

"Yes," Hermione affirmed. "Draco says you're a good story-teller, and I want to hear you tell a story."

Morrigan threw a deeply affronted look at Draco, who shrugged, then placed his mug of coffee down and sat forward to listen.

Morrigan took a deep breath, and then began:

"Many years ago, Ulster was a great power of Ireland. The first king, Fergus Mac Roth, was deposed by Conchobhar Mac Nessa, whose power grew strong, as he was the people's choice. His advisor, a druid named Cathbad, also grew in power. Cathbad's daughter, Dechtire, came of age and was immediately married off to Mac Roth's brother, Sualtum Mac Roth. On their wedding day, Dechtire looked so beautiful that she attracted the attention of the sun god Lugh, who sent a fly to Dechtire, causing the bride to swallow it and become possessed of the idea that she should travel to the Otherworld with fifty other women. Instantly she turned to a beautiful bird, along with the other maidens, and traveled to Lugh, where he awaited. For three years, Lugh kept her there for his own pleasure, although Cathbad told Dechtire's husband that she was visiting relatives, as her ancestors had been immortals.

"Finally, three years later, Dechtire and her fifty maidens returned as radiant, colorful birds, while Dechtire was with child. Dechtire bore her son, Setanta, and Sualtum took him as his own, for he was dearly gladdened that Dechtire had returned. Setanta grew older, and he soon proved himself the martial superior of his peers. He proved himself strong and brave when he killed the hound of Culan when the beast attacked him. Setanta offered his service as a hound until Culan could replace his dog, but Culan refused the offer. From then on, however, Setanta was known as Cu Chulainn. He proved in a battle against giants that he had the power of gods in his fists, although it took three vats of water to cool the battle fury upon the conclusion of the battle.

"But despite the proof of his prowess, Cu Chulainn was not peerless to other champions spread across the rest of the world. Soon he left to find the Scottish champion Domhall. Domhall, however, told Cu Chulainn that none could train him better than the warrior-princess Scathach. Cu Chulainn was forced to travel many miles and brave many dangers in order to find her, but finally he met her in the Land of Shadows. The Warrior-Princess Scathach taught Setanta his famous battle leap and many other skills, while Uathach, her daughter, taught him other things of the more private nature.

"There came a day that Cu Chulainn met and challenged Aoifa, Scathach's sister. Scathach tried to prevent Cu Chulainn from challenging Aoifa but he resisted, to fight a battle of skill, power, and wits. Cu Chulainn won by the skin of his teeth, but took Aoifa as a lover, conceiving a child before he left, leaving only a gold ring for Aoifa before he went home to Ulster.

"Aoifa gave birth to a handsome boy named Conlai, who showed amazing battle prowess, although this was unsurprising, given who his parents were. At nine, Conlai finally wished to go forward in the world and greet his father. Aoifa put the gold ring upon his finger and warned Conlai not to reveal his identity to any, thus sealing Conlai's fate.

"The boy found mighty Ulster with little difficulty, and at the city gates he called up that he could fight and win against any champion the city chose to set against him. Many rose to meet the challenge, and a great crowd grew at the walls to watch the nine-year-old defeat the Ulstermen. One by one the Ulstermen rose to the sword and were cut down by Conlai's blade. From the walls, Cu Chulainn watched, impressed by this boy. Finally he decided to challenge Conlai, liking his spirit, although his wife, Emer, cautioned him and pleaded that he wouldn't challenge the boy. Cu Chulainn shrugged her worries away and descended to challenge his son.

"At the bottom, the boy met Cu Chulainn in battle with such ferocity that the champion became even more impressed by his zeal, despite the fact that Cu Chulainn was barely trying. Suddenly, in a burst of overconfidence, Conlai cut a lock of gold hair from Cu Chulainn's head and angered the champion. With little effort at all, Cu Chulainn plunged his sword into Conlai's girth, mortally wounding the boy. In the last moment of Conlai's life, Cu Chulainn saw the ring upon Conlai's finger and cried out in anguish—he had killed his son.

"The Ulsterman picked the ravaged body of his son from the dirt and carried him into the city, where he was given the proper burial deserved of a warrior and the son of a famous champion. Although Cu Chulainn had never known the boy, his grief and sorrow overwhelmed him as he said farewell to his only son forever, unknowing that he, too, would soon share a similar fate, but that is a story for another time and another place…"

Morrigan trailed off and looked up. Hermione looked stricken, while Draco was lost in his thoughts. "Well?" Morrigan asked, her voice unsteady and rather hoarse.

"That was beautiful," Hermione breathed. "Thank you."

"I—you're welcome," Morrigan stuttered, unsure of how to respond, then turned to Draco. "I would prefer that you read yours later, Malfoy, in your own company."

Draco snapped out of his thoughts and said, "What--? Oh! Yes, of course."

Looking at him strangely, Morrigan said, "May I shower?"

Hermione smiled at her, then led her to the bathroom, summoning her toiletries once more. "Why don't you wear your new robes?" she asked.

"Of course," Morrigan said, hurrying to get them. She decided upon the red ones and then went into the bathroom, locking the door quietly.

Hermione left the door when she was sure that the water was running and Morrigan was bathing. She began picking up paper, and noticed Draco sitting in the chair, his eyes wide and staring, lost in his thoughts.

"What are you thinking about, Draco?" she asked.

"I was thinking of how remarkable it is that she knew that story," he replied immediately. "And amused that of all the Celtic myths she knew, it would be one that had nothing to do with love—er, romantic love, that is."

"Where do you suppose she heard it?" Hermione asked.

"I'm wondering if she'd ever heard it at all," Draco told her with a frown. "The only person that could have possibly told her such a story was her mother, and she was out of her life by the time Flaherty was five. There's no way she could have retained such a story."

"Hm, I think that _is _where she heard it."

"What makes you say that?" Draco inquired curiously.

"Well, am I correct in assuming she had an unhappy childhood?" she posed.

"Very correct," Draco confirmed.

"And that her mother was _not _the source of this unhappiness?"

"Again, correct," Draco sighed.

"Perhaps her mother told her stories to help her sleep."

"Assuming her mother knew such tales."

"Her mother most _assuredly _knew those tales," Hermione asserted confidently. "Morrigan is not a common name. Morgan is common, but I'm sure you know only _one _Morrigan--that one," she said, pointing towards the bathroom, "being the only one. Morrigan was the Celtic goddess of battle, whose love Cu Chulainn refused, resulting, ultimately in his death. Morrigan helped destroy Cu Chulainn, et cetera, as deities always have the last word. Anyway, I am willing to bet that her mother was quite informed in Celtic mythology and history. She probably regaled Morrigan with many different stories, which Morrigan probably memorized, comprehending or not. In time, in accordance with whatever happened to Morrigan to make her so bitter, she probably forgot the stories of love and lust in favor of tragedies and battles."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "And do you think that if she read that mythology, she will remember some of those tales?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And when she remembers these tales that her mother told her?"

Hermione's face lit up. "The memories will make her remember her emotions!" She did a quick dance, sending the paper in her hands flying. With a bashful smile, she picked them up once more.

In the bathroom, Morrigan stood in front of the mirror, gazing at her reflection. Her black hair had grown noticeably longer, and her bangs were officially becoming irksome. The circles beneath her eyes, once dark and imposing, had mostly evaporated, making her look bright and alarmingly…normal. Banishing these thoughts, Morrigan braided her hair into two plaits, tying them with two elastics found in the cabinet. She then dressed into the red robes, instantly pleased with them.

The fabric was luxurious and comfortable, and as opposed to the baggy style that Morrigan usually chose to wear, these were not as bulky, and with these, she actually had a waist—although it was more of a line distinguished by the beginning of her back end. The sleeves didn't flow, and Morrigan could see the practicality in this, as she was always miffed when she got the baggy ones in her potions. Morrigan was quite pleased, and she walked out into the living room with a half smile on her face. Draco looked up at her and looked away quickly. Hermione smiled brightly and said, "You look wonderful!"

"Thanks," Morrigan mumbled, looking at her feet. Hermione left and came back with a tray of mugs.

"Your appetizers," she said, handing them each a mug of a steaming, thick substance.

"What is it?" Morrigan asked suspiciously.

"Hot chocolate!" Hermione exclaimed.

Draco took a drink. The moment he tasted it, he began to hack and cough, and as a result, most of the hot chocolate ended up on the rug. "This has cinnamon in it," he said, looking up at Hermione whose eyes had widened slightly and looked rather hurt.

"Yes, I thought you might like it," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I do," he said. "Thanks."

Relieved, Hermione smiled. "Good."

Morrigan sipped at it, finding the warm substance a bit too sweet, but good regardless. It filled her stomach and settled there comfortably. She followed Hermione to the kitchen, where the girl was running around, cooking something in the oven and on the stove that smelled very good. "I…I could help," Morrigan offered. "I know how to cook."

Hermione turned in surprise. "You know how to cook?"

"Yeah. It was my first job at Parselart."

"Oh," Hermione said. "Well, do you know how to cook a ham?"

"Is it like cooking a duck?" Morrigan asked uncertainly.

"Sort of. Just check it every few minutes. I have to begin the cake and scones now, or I'll never get done."

Morrigan was quiet for a while, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed and watching Hermione with a cryptic expression on her face. Eventually she spoke up. "Why are you doing all this?"

"What?" Hermione asked evasively, not looking up from the cake batter.

"This huge ordeal for Christmas. I know you have family, and…well, Malfoy doesn't, but still. Why would you do this for me? I _hate _you and your Mudblood kin. I have killed your kind before, tortured them as they laid at my feet, as they pulled their own hair out of their heads, screaming until they cough up blood, or rupture arteries. Just because I could. Because I wanted to hurt them." Morrigan's eyes clouded over, her expression dark.

"Because I don't think you know any different," Hermione replied quietly, looking up now to stare Morrigan down. "I could sit here and analyze you all day, even though I don't know anything about your history, and I might never know it. But I do know that someone in your past gave you a reason to hate Muggles, to hate me. I can't erase the hurt they have caused you, nor can I make up for it in any way. But I can teach you. You can learn from me."

"What can I learn from _you_?" Morrigan sneered. "Even if you can teach me about love and kindness, what is the _point_? Whether you are good or not, whatever that means, it still does not change the fact that you are, in fact—" Hermione winced as she anticipated the next word "—Muggleborn, and therefore my inferior."

"What is it, in fact, that makes me inferior to you?" Hermione asked her cocking her head to the side. "Hm? Question: are you better than Voldemort?"

"Don't say his name!" Morrigan hissed. "And of course I'm not. He is too powerful to be compared to me, a mere cockroach in his schemes."

"Oh, in that case, would you like me to inform you that, by your own argument, you are in fact his superior, and by saying that you are a 'mere cockroach' to his schemes is contradicting yourself?"

"How do you mean?" Morrigan asked, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I mean that your master is a Halfblood, his father a poor, deceived Muggle that left Merope Gaunt for _dead _when she stopped feeding him the love potion she so ingeniously concocted to keep him helplessly infatuated with her, to keep him from leaving her and her unborn child. Yes, one of the last descendants of Salazar Slytherin, reduced to feeding a mere _Muggle _a love potion so that he'd think she was good enough."

"You lie!" Morrigan snarled, her fists curled into fists.

"I don't," Hermione said through an uncharacteristic smirk. "No, I know on very reliable terms that your Lord is a deceiving Halfblood, and obviously inferior to you."

"But—but—" sputtered Morrigan, her face stricken.

"Sorry, Morrigan. Your precious leader is a liar, and he does not conserve his deceitful tendencies from even his most loyal followers. I believe you have ill-placed your loyalty."

Draco came to stand in the doorway, watching as Morrigan took this in. She could see in Hermione's face that she wasn't lying. Even more terribly, Morrigan believed her.

"Oh, and his bullshit about power being everything? Wrong, too. You want to know why he couldn't defeat Harry? _Love_. Voldemort traded love for immortality and marked himself for defeat."

Morrigan was flabbergasted, to put it lightly. She couldn't stand, and she fell in a chair, her eyes widened melodramatically.

"Why would he--?"

"Because, to Voldemort, power is more important than loyalty. Even yours, Morrigan," she added softly, her eyes kind.

Morrigan did the only thing she knew to do, she pressed her forehead to the table and closed her eyes, fiercely wishing that the ground wasn't so close, and praying that it would stay away.

Draco, Morrigan, and Hermione sat before the fire in the sitting room. They had been silent for the better part of an hour, but suddenly, to Hermione and Draco's surprise, Morrigan broke the silence. "What is it, Granger, that I don't know?"

Hermione looked at Morrigan with an astonished expression. "There's quite a bit, you know."

"Yes, but it seems that if I'm to survive, I need to know a few things."

"Are you actually volunteering to learn about the _light side_?" Draco asked amusedly.

"Yes," Morrigan snapped. "It doesn't mean I'll fight for your stupid Order. It just means that I want to know. I'm curious, is all."

Hermione curled into her ball, leaning against the couch with a smile. "This has been the best Christmas ever," she observed dreamily.

Draco smiled at her and said, "I'm going to retire. I can trust that neither of you are going to kill each other while I'm gone?"

Both girls nodded solemnly, and Draco stood, his tall frame filling the light and temporarily casting a shadow over the whole room. He passed by both of them and was gone. He went up to his room, yawning gently. After today, a bit of sleep would be much appreciated. He shoved his hands in his robes, preparing to dress immediately after closing the door. His hand touched something soft, and he pulled it out.

It was the scroll Morrigan had given him, which he had forgotten until now. He slowly untied, unrolled, and began to read it.

_This is a strange gift to give, I think, but I could not truly judge the inimitability of any gift, seeing as I have such little experience in giving them. I pray you will not reveal the contents of this with a single soul, although I encourage you, reveal them if it is of dire importance to do so. Of course, seeing as I am nothing to the rest of the world, save perhaps the Dark Lord, who alone has expressed any care for me at all, this should be of little relevance._

_I do not know why I have chosen to reveal myself to you. It has not been long since I have called you a yellow bastard, among other things, most of them far less pleasant. Long ago, a woman taught me to speak when someone is listening and listen when someone is speaking. It is a ridiculous thing I perhaps remembered from my weak mother, but still, I feel that you are listening and something is telling me to speak. It may be that you care not about what I say, and if this is so, I pray you—read no more, for I do not wish to seem a weak fool, especially to those I consider my enemy. However, I digress._

_Do you know, Mr. Malfoy, how it is to feel abandoned? This is a ridiculous question, you may think, on two accounts. The first, I believe, is that you are human, and abandonment is a human term, for most humans have, at one time, been abandoned or felt such a way. The second is that, despite my tragic past, I do not seemed to have ever been truly abandoned, as my mother was there until her death at the end of a wand._

_If you thought that, you are wrong. Forgive my bluntness, but never is abandonment more dire than when that _ - the_ person that abandoned you is right beside you, your fate in their hands. As John Miller beat us—my mother and I—not once did she raise a hand. She did not even consider destroying him. I now know that she could have easily done so, could have crushed his life with little effort at all. However, she was weakened by love, weakened by her own fear. She could have stopped this, she could have stopped John Miller's abuse._

_She abandoned her child, though, for a mere Muggle. A toy to the wizards! A blemish on the face of the earth! He flayed MY flesh, my beautiful Pureblood flesh. He spilled the blood and broke the veins of a family older than time, a family that can trace its lines to an acolyte of Morgan Le Fay and the Tuatha De Danann. His filthy hands should never have touched me, destroyed me, inspired fear in me. He should have been painfully ripped apart from his innards, as should my mother for her abandonment. She brought me into this world, and she should have taken responsibility for this action, her husband alive or not._

_Muggles have ever inspired fear in the hearts of wizards. They are the majority of the world, and they bow down to their powerful deities, all dead save a few starving demigods and river goddesses. They do not realize that the gods, to prevent the Muggles from destroying the world, created the wizards. We alone understand that there is magic, that there is power, that there is life in everything. The Muggles have always been trying to destroy the gods' creations. They cannot be allowed to do this, I have long reasoned._

_When I first heard of the Dark Lord, my blood danced, my heart sparkled, my mind sang. Purify the world, make it whole again! Make us a proud people again! The Muggleborns could not be trusted, though. They did not understand that magic was the only alternative. Machines are the fiends of earth, and those behind them should be stopped, with force, if necessary._

_How could we reason with the Muggles? They are too busy fighting each other, too busy threatening each other with their explosive deaths, their substitute magic. They believe that pushing a button will make them stronger, will stop the opposition, will turn their problems to dust. But the Muggles do not realize that the earth's problems are their problems, too. They do not understand that if they turn the earth to ash, they, too, will be turned to ash._

_We have before tried to reason with them, and have failed. Worse, we have been violated, our rights of nature taken for a Cross and a flame, a book of rules and two tablets broken in spite. These new religions cannot tolerate the old ones, and they cannot tolerate others! They should be gone, and He alone can take the path needed, a martyr of life and beauty—twisted into a form of malevolence and Dark pieces. I alone can understand the splendor found in his cold skin, his red eyes, his cold voice._

_Cold is what I feel, and it is lovely. Cold is refreshing and unchanging. It is power and darkness. It is a constant. It is autumn and winter, spring and half of summer. Do you not see? I need this, for if I lose it, I will be swept away. I will be gone, and in my place will be forty weak men, seeing only a far more powerful being and a safer life for them and their kin. They do not understand that there is no safety anywhere. The danger is what distinguishes us from the Muggles, who believe in their safety, and therefore establish it with their electricity and Bibles that promise paradise beyond death regardless of the sins we have committed in this life. I cannot live a life living without fear, without hatred, without consistency. Who are we but our habits? Who are we, indeed…_

Draco dropped the scroll and fell back into his bed with a groan. Was she ever going to change? Her argument was so…perfect. It was as if she'd been having an argument with him, anticipating every move and writing them all down.

"FUCK!" he swore loudly. Why…why was he so angry? It was ridiculous. Either she would change, or she wouldn't. It was no concern of his. And yet…yet she seemed eager to learn. Could it be the world of practicality and ambition had grown boring? Maybe she didn't want consistency nearly as much as she claimed she did. He had seen her face when she saw the red robes. Despite the fact Hermione had given them to her, she was obviously pleased with the brightness and beauty of such a color.

She can change, he told himself, still angry for caring.

_But_, said a nagging voice, _what price will be paid for this change?_


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six: A Comparison Terrifying and Morbid—But I'll Hold Your Hand As You Jump**

Morrigan's following week was rather busy, mostly because she spent most of her time above the basement. Following breakfast, Draco would let her out of the basement. Hermione handed her six books, telling her which books to read first.

Morrigan's first book was _Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl_. Morrigan looked at it in distaste. "This is a Muggle book," she said defiantly. "Why are you giving me Muggle books?"

"Because if you're going to find out that Muggles aren't _bad_, who else are you going to learn from? As it is, I don't know any Muggles that the Order can trust to bring into Grimmauld Place, so you're stuck with a written voice."

"Gee, sorry," Morrigan snapped sarcastically. If Hermione noticed, she ignored it.

"Don't apologize, just read the book and tell me what you find." Morrigan settled herself upon the couch and opened the book, her eyes skipping from word to word quickly. At lunch, Draco called Hermione and Morrigan into the kitchen, where they ate leftover ham and potatoes.

"Where are you, Morrigan?" Hermione asked briskly, helping herself to the potatoes.

"Mm…May ninth of nineteen-forty-four."

"Oh, that far?" Hermione asked. "Quite good. Not as fast as I am, of course…" Hermione caught a dirty look from Morrigan and Draco and promptly shut her mouth.

"Have you learned anything thus far?" Malfoy asked, his voice steady.

"Well, I understand what she's feeling, but it doesn't mean I appreciate it."

"Why not?" Hermione asked crossly.

"It's just a novel. If someone had actually felt these things—"

"That's an actual diary, Morrigan," Hermione interrupted.

"It was?" Morrigan inquired abashedly. "I can't believe it! Where is she now?"

"She died," Hermione told Morrigan, her voice hard. "The Nazis caught on and raided the house. Anne was sent to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp where she died of typhus two months before her fellow prisoners were released near the conclusion of the war."

"That's ridiculous. It's _all _ridiculous. The Nazis can't have had any _good _reason for incriminating the Jews. Anne and her family weren't criminals, after all. They were no better or worse than the next person," Morrigan protested.

"So you're saying that all Muggleborns and Halfbloods are equally evil? That's not really all that different," Draco said snidely. Their eyes met, and Draco read Morrigan's perfectly. _You know why I hate Muggles_.

"Yes, it is," she said coldly.

"How so?" Hermione asked.

"Because this is about the Jews and the Nazis—both Muggle groups. I mean, it's not for Muggles to decide which Muggles are worse than the other. They're all capable of more or less the same things."

"I know!" Hermione joined in, her tone rather patronizing. "People aren't born evil, they're made evil. So, if they were born in the same society, they should really be all the same. The Jews went to the synagogue, the Germans to their church. And it wasn't just Jews, Morrigan. There were gypsies, homosexuals, cripples…the list could go on an on. They didn't stop. Ever. They just kept going. As soon as Hitler could figure out another 'inferior' social group, he put out a call to send them to the concentration camps, to take away their rights. His hatred kept growing and the people kept dying and the regular civilians kept ignoring it…"

"Exactly," Morrigan snorted. "Muggles are stupid." She paused for a moment, at loss for what to say next.

Suddenly, "I guess it's _all _my fault that my parents conceived a witch and she took advantage of the gifts provided, then," Hermione remarked sarcastically. "Just like it was all Anne's fault that her parents were Jewish."

"I—" Morrigan started, but Hermione held up a hand.

"Don't finish it. Admit it, it's wrong."

"Fine," Morrigan snapped. "But no matter what you say, Muggles are still a blemish. No matter what you say about Muggleborns and Halfbloods, Muggles cannot be trusted. They should be destroyed."

"Then what?" Hermione barked. "Then…then we have to intermarry until everyone on earth is inbred?"

"Hermione, I think you're seriously underestimating the wizarding numbers—" Draco said, but Hermione cut him off with her palm, which flew up to stop him.

"Admit it, Flaherty. We need Muggles and they need us. We need them to _live _and they need us to keep the earth alive."

Morrigan looked surprised at Hermione's admittance that the Muggles killed the earth; at the fact that Hermione understood the horrors the Muggles visited upon the Earth.

"Oh yes," Hermione railed on. "I'm fully aware of the pollution that Muggles have begun. I'm fully aware that they're bent on a path of destruction. But without them, wizards will eventually die out, like it or not. There are so many humans on earth; it's safer to have children because we don't have to worry about genetic mutations. Wizards are superhumans, but we don't dominate the earth, power or no."

Morrigan looked down at her food, pushing it around with her fork. "I understand," she mumbled, and Hermione and Draco exchanged a look of pure delight. Morrigan looked back up with a glare on her face. "But I won't be happy about it."

Draco and Hermione laughed out loud in relieved tones, and Morrigan grinned wryly along at her own childishness.

After lunch, Morrigan helped Draco clear the table, and then went back to the couch to finish her book, although the conversation related to this book was closed. Morrigan had learned something, and she now understood, partially, why the Order worked so hard to protect the Muggles. It was almost more out of practicality than love for Muggles. _The Dark Lord's been wrong all along. Their mercy is more than a weak fancy_. This thought disturbed her, so she stood and walked back into the kitchen, where Hermione was once more mixing a pot of cleaning solution.

"May I have the next book?" Morrigan asked. "I finished _Anne Frank_."

"Very well," Hermione said, wiping her hands on her robes and wrinkling her nose at the potion. "I think I did something wrong. It's not turning bright blue like the book said it should."

"Did you add peppermint?" Morrigan asked, and Hermione frowned.

"It doesn't say to add peppermint."

"Of course it doesn't. That's Flaxer's copy of the potion. He copied it from an old copy of Tina Lawcer's. Apparently old Flaxer forgot the peppermint."

Hermione reached into the cupboard, grabbing a leaf of peppermint. She dropped it in the potion, which instantly turned transparent blue. She smiled brightly at Morrigan then led Morrigan to her, Hermione's, bedroom. Sitting at the top of the pile sat _Pride and Prejudice_.

Hermione handed this to Morrigan and said, "This should take you perhaps this afternoon and tomorrow morning, if you're a good reader. Otherwise it will take you about a day and a half."

"I think I should get it done in less than a day," Morrigan laughed, prancing out the door with the book in her hand.

It took her a day and a half.

Upon reading the last bit, she snapped the book shut and walked angrily into the kitchen. "I've never detested a book more…ever."

"Why?" Hermione inquired flatly.

"It was so…cliché."

"How would you know?" Hermione asked scornfully.

"Even I know what 'happily ever after' means," Morrigan snapped. "Everyone married their favored husband except for Mary, who got the bum deal. In my opinion, that girl was far more intelligent than the rest of the lot." She frowned. "Actually, I did rather like Elizabeth—until she gave into Darcy."

"Don't forget, Kitty didn't get her husband either," Hermione admonished. "You didn't like Darcy?"

"Who could?" Morrigan retorted angrily. "He was proud, conceited, and he tried to excuse his social disgraces away with lame explanations of…of…genuine intent!"

"But he had good cause," Hermione reprimanded gently. "He had been wronged by both Wickham and Elizabeth, who provoked him into returning her attacks in kind."

"He was rich and used it as his excuse," Morrigan snapped. "As if his pedigree made him better than the Bennetts—" Morrigan clapped a hand over her mouth. "I didn't!" she exclaimed, but Hermione nodded with a delighted smile.

"You're learning…" she taunted, dancing out of the kitchen and going to fetch the next book.

And so it continued. As she read _The Hobbit_, Morrigan was forced to take pity upon poor Gollum, whose "Precious" had been stolen. The poor creature was pathetic and addicted, a creature of the Ring. Hermione didn't bother painting the similarities between Morrigan and Gollum—if Morrigan was going to understand this, she had to see the pictures in her mind. Morrigan also had to acknowledge the courage and bravery of Bilbo, another similar figure. Although afraid of change, he participated in the greatest change of all—and was all the better for it.

Morrigan read _The Secret Garden _with delight. She loved secrets and the thought of having something just for her own keeping, especially a place. Her room at Parselart had been so sacred to her, so personal. The privacy had seemed beautiful to her, divine. The book unfolded before her, and she found that the characters had been attractive to her, as well. Mary—oh how cross she had been. But she grew from Mary Contrary into a healthy lass of earthly wisdom, smart even for a Muggle. And Dicken…oh earth-savvy Dicken with his pony and his raven…Morrigan could not help but to find a boy sympathetic with ravens appealing—although she hadn't the slightest idea _why_.

Morrigan was next handed Phantom of the Opera, which intrigued Morrigan with its complexity. Personally, she was of the opinion that the Phantom was far too intelligent to be tied up with that twit, Christine Daae. _Let Raoul take her!_ Morrigan urged every time the Phantom pined for the betraying singer. _She's not worth your genius, Erik! _Morrigan was rather satisfied by the ending. Although it was rather tragic and dramatic, it was good. She did find the Phantom's penchant for throwing fits and killing people a bit irritating. He was, after all, an adult, and just because Christine didn't love him—well, that was no reason to kill helpless innocents. She didn't notice this tiny change in her personality, since it was so tiny, and made so much sense, she barely recognized it as sympathetic.

As her mind changed bit by bit, becoming compassionate to those who lay in the power of others, she began to wonder what on _earth _was happening to her mind? Were they poisoning her, making her feel this way?

But no, she felt more certain of her thoughts _now_. It was like waking from a deep slumber. She'd always known these things. She'd always known that it was wrong to kill without need of defense. That side of her had lay dormant for a long time, or had never seen the light of day. The books and words dug deeper into her mind, giving room for other, more revolutionary thoughts. _How could I have done these things, these things that I have despised of characters in books! _

She was now torn back and forth between her old thoughts—Mudbloods and Halfbloods cannot be trusted—and her new ones—I don't need to prove my point with the end of a wand. _What _is _my point? _she thought. _I have no point! I am not superior to Hermione, who has never killed an innocent soul in her life. She is just as smart as I am, possibly smarter. She is happy, despite her lack of connection. Even more, people love her, while people despise me._

Still, there was a nagging doubt at her positive thoughts. _Do not forget what they've done to you, what they've done to your peers. Do not forget the Dark Lord's power, or that he has helped you so much over the past few years._

No, Morrigan wasn't entirely way done. She had not yet repented for killing countless people, although the guilt was starting to weigh heavily upon her, tug at her mind, upset her sleeping at night.

Upon conclusion of _The Phantom of the Opera_, Hermione handed her _Irish Gems of Wit and Humor. _Morrigan looked at it disparagingly. "How will this help me?" she asked.

"You have yet to learn to laugh for fun rather than cruel snickering," Hermione said softly. "Read them sporadically. And now," she said abruptly, "I need help cleaning. Would you care to help me with my chore?"

"Sure," Morrigan said with a smile, putting the book on the table and instantly forgetting it. "What do you need?"

"Well, there's a rather large collection of valuable heirlooms in the storage room, and if you'll get them for me, I'd be much obliged. Last time I tried to remove them, it was rather painful."

"I bet," Morrigan returned wryly. "Purebloods like to keep Mud—er, Muggleborn hands off their booty." She turned and headed toward the storage room. She opened the door and found that the room was already lit and occupied.

Before Morrigan was crouched (to say he was standing was surely an overstatement) the most pathetic creature she had ever laid eyes on. He was obviously a House-Elf. He wore a loincloth for a garment, which was ratty and disgusting. His skin was a mottled greenish-grey, slightly reminiscent of bogies. His ears were long, twisted, and torn. His nose was stretched and seemed almost blue. Most conspicuous of his facial features were the eyes, which had turned to look at her with such adoration that she almost jumped back in fear.

The elf flung himself at her feet and began to say in an old, croaky voice, "Oh beautiful witch!"

Morrigan was horrified. "I'm not beautiful," she muttered, trying to kick him off her boots for fear of soiling them. "Get off me!"

The elf sank low to the floor. "Oh, Kreacher has long waited for such a beautiful Madame as she," he moaned, sinking to the floor. "Perfect witch of oldest blood, of the Purger's Order…"

"Kreacher!" Morrigan said loudly. "I'm not your Madame. You can stop calling me that."

But the house-elf wasn't listening. He was running on and on about how glad he was to see her, despite the fact (which neither of the two knew) Kreacher's preferred mistress hated Morrigan. She looked at him, and as he spurted his nonsense of adoration, she realized with a jolt that he was _just like her_.

How many times had she prostrated herself before the Dark Lord and said the same exact things? How many times had she called the Dark Lord her master? Had she begged him for orders so that she may please him? Really, she'd been pathetic, too. She'd let Voldemort shower her with gifts and praise, had confidently sold her soul to him for his affection—his _false _affection.

If she continued her life beside Voldemort, she might someday find herself just like Kreacher. Old and useless, pathetic and bumbling, speaking in third person and muttering inanely about asinine beliefs—old fashioned and insipid. This _was _her. Kreacher was Morrigan, and Morrigan was Kreacher. In that moment, Morrigan fled from the room, her face hot and hands clammy. She needed to be alone.

She did not want to run headfirst into Malfoy.

With a shriek she tried to untangle herself from him, but he held her shoulders and gave her a good shake. "What's wrong?" he demanded, his voice rising over her pained moans.

"I can't—"

"Tell me," he said fiercely. "I will listen and you should speak," he whispered. Morrigan's eyes doubled in size, then she allowed herself to be pulled upstairs and into an empty room. "Sit," Draco ordered and Morrigan sat on the moth-bitten armchair, then leaned forward and put her head in her hands, pushing her hair back out of her face, staring down at the floor.

"I'm pathetic," she whispered. "I don't have any allegiance to anyone anymore. Not even myself."

"You don't have to," Draco told her. "You shouldn't have to put your complete loyalty in anything."

"No, I'm weak, I'm a fool, and I'm… I'm just like that blasted house-elf."

"Ah," Draco muttered. "So you've met Kreacher, have you?"

"He's _just like _me. He's a bumbling, adoring…filthy…"

"Stop," Draco ordered. His face was pale, and Morrigan noticed for the first time that he didn't look well at all.

"Are you all right, Malfoy?" she asked. "You look ill."

"I'm fine," Draco snapped tersely, his tone brooking no argument.

"Sorry," she whispered. Draco turned and looked at her. "You're not pathetic," he told her. "You're sadly misinformed. Hermione's informing you. Some day you will have enough information to decide where your loyalties lie. And then you can do whatever feels right to you."

"And if that's the wrong side?" She threw her hands up. "It doesn't matter! Anywhere where I go, I can never make up for what I've done…what I've been!" Morrigan cried, standing and beginning to pace. "I'm a monster, I should never have existed!" She stopped turning to face Draco with hysteria forming in her eyes. "Never have I had less influence over my own thoughts, my own emotions! Lately I wake at night, waiting for my Dark Mark to burn, but it doesn't, and I don't understand why! I think things will stop being so confusing if I just feel that sweet burning, see my skin writhe morbidly as the Dark Lord calls out to me. But it doesn't, and I'm forced to finish the night alone, with no master and nothing to get me to sleep. Not the reassuring flickering of the flames, satisfying prickling of my Dark Mark, not the cries of a victim in my power…" Her eyes flickered momentarily, becoming animal-like and wild, but then changed back. "I just want to be certain of something, to _know_."

"I understand," Draco told her. "But _you_ understand that life isn't worth living if you can anticipate the rest of your life. You were _bored_, Morrigan. Bored of following orders, of looking at the same dreary darkness, of listening to the same cries for mercy. You were scared to death of fucking up and losing it all, but you were even more terrified of living your life that way."

"You're wrong," Morrigan told him, shaking her head. "I wanted nothing better than to spend the rest of my life that way. I was content. I had everything I'd ever wanted—"

"Well sometimes we find other things that we want," Draco snapped. "Sometimes we don't know what we want. Sometimes what we wanted never was what we wanted. You were unhappy."

"I don't care about being happy!" Morrigan cried. "I don't even know what that _means_. Happiness, sadness, madness, anger—they're all emotions! They're fleeting, they come and go—"

"Stop being so conservative!" Draco snapped. "You were _not _content, so don't tell me you were. You weren't discontent, either; you were searching. You looked forward to dueling with Bellatrix. Maybe you wanted to win and prove yourself the very best, or maybe you wanted to die, I don't know! But you're like a wild cat. You were never meant to be someone's pet—there was is? too much bite in you. And now we're giving you the opportunity to embrace it and you don't _want _it because you're scared. You're scared that you'll like it too much or that you'll lose control of yourself…that you'll have to depend on someone. Unfortunately, I'm not leaving you until you can do it yourself."

Morrigan's eyes widened and she wasn't sure what to say. "I don't understand."

"Oh for the love of Merlin!" Draco cried angrily. "I'm telling you that you're going to have to step out there and just do it, whether you want to go back to Voldemort or not! Let yourself go. I promise—I'll hold your hand."

And he did. He reached out and grabbed her hand. Morrigan gaped up at him gracelessly, but she didn't pull away. "Okay," she said.

* * *

A/N: I hope you'll give me some feedback. It's nice to know what's going right or wrong.

That's all. Ciao.


	7. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I do not own any of canon characters, all of whom belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Media.

**Chapter Seven: That Shouldn't Have Happened On Any Account**

The weeks passed pleasantly, now that all three of the inhabitants of No. Twelve knew how to peacefully coexist. At Morrigan's request, they left some of the décor and candles up. Morrigan and Hermione got on rather well—Morrigan tried Hermione's patience occasionally, and Hermione got on Morrigan's nerves quite often, but both tried quite hard at the "tolerance thing," as Draco put it, and they seemed to be coming along. Draco, meanwhile, was watching Morrigan's growing process with mounting satisfaction. He hadn't thought it possible, and yet, before his eyes, was the evidence that it was.

His time spent with Hermione, too, was becoming far more enjoyable. She was nowhere near as cumbersome as he had previously thought her, and she had a lot more grace than the outward eye could perceive. Sometimes he sat back and watched her, musing over her movements and quirks with fascination. She smiled easily, her eyes crinkling upward into a joyful expression of consistent delight. Her laugh was steady and full, just as easy as her smile, full of mirth. She dearly loved to laugh, and used every opportunity she could. Morrigan provided her with an easy subject, every new mannerism sounding strange and alien coming from her mouth. Draco would watch them, a small smile playing upon his lips. He felt a strange possessiveness over them, as if he thought, _This is mine, I forged this, and I keep it going. I am the only one watching, and that is how it should be_.

With this strange case of security, Draco felt protective of them. Hermione's naïveté prompted much of it, her eagerness to help and love, along with her unguarded passion. He felt that her incompetent boyfriend was useless to protect her, and sometimes Draco felt that Hermione needed to be protected against the boy. Anyone could tell when they weren't talking. He always knew at Hogwarts when they were angry at each other. Hermione's lips were always pursed and she would be slightly less sufferable, snappier. He had found it a source of amusement then, seeing if he could test her, push her over the edge. Occasionally he'd been able to do it most beautifully, but other times, her independence and intelligence had thwarted him.

Morrigan was entirely different from Hermione. She needed him, in some strange way. She needed him to tell her that whatever she was currently doing was the right thing. She would never let him know directly that he had any influence over what she was doing, but she would use little gestures or furtive glances to ask his approval, and he would reply in kind. She needed to be shown, not necessarily protected.

Every day, Morrigan covered new ground, whether she knew it or not. She might allow Hermione's hand to touch hers when passing food, or she'd smile at Draco when he said something amusing. Although these things weren't huge steps, they were the proof of her changing mind. She could see that Hermione wasn't going to hurt her, and that Draco wasn't going to leave her, abandon her, as she was terrified he would do. She slowly began to trust them, allowing Hermione to plait her hair when she was helping the girl with her cleaning, or allowing Draco to correct her thesis on remedial charms (a current project to keep her academic mentality busy).

Morrigan was obviously attaching to Hermione and Draco, both of whom encouraged this attachment with enthusiasm, though differently. Hermione was friendly, offering her friendship and respect, while Draco listened to Morrigan, his eyes entirely on her when she spoke. The girl obviously admired him deeply for his regard toward her, and she was relentless in her ways to show appreciation. If Draco was having difficulty finding the right words for a certain spell he was trying to create, a sheet of paper with a fine selection of words to use would find itself to his bedside table; Morrigan would find her way to the kitchen to make lunch before he could, despite Morrigan having already made breakfast; or Morrigan would have already moved the heirlooms Hermione needed moved, despite Hermione nagging Draco to do it. No matter what she did, she would pretend like she didn't know what he was talking about if he thanked her for it or acknowledged it, so Draco learned not to bring it up.

Hermione and Draco decided that the basement was no longer an appropriate accommodation for Morrigan, and decided to move her into the room beside Hermione. Morrigan appreciated the move—an act of trust, no doubt. Draco locked her in every night out of responsibility, which she understood perfectly. She had settled into it and was given to long hours in the room, reading and writing.

On a night four weeks after Christmas, Hermione and Draco sat together, Morrigan already having retired, and talked quietly. They had been talking about Draco's Animagus registration, when talk turned to Morrigan's development.

"I think she's coming along nicely, don't you?" Hermione asked Draco.

He gave her a small smile and nodded. "Quite. I'm astonished how little resistance she gave. It was like she wanted us to change her."

"She'd do anything if you told her to," Hermione observed. "I think it was more your influence that caused her to make the change."

"Me?" Draco sputtered. "How so? She hated me before the transformation."

"I don't think so. She told _you _her story; she looked for _your _approval before she did anything. Obviously she held, and holds, you in high esteem."

"Don't be stupid," Draco snorted. "I was the only one she knew. That's the only reason she did that."

"Okay," Hermione teased, "Whatever you say."

"Hermione, you've shown her more with your wise words and your steadfast encouragement than I could have ever hoped to do myself. I didn't have any patience for that kind of shite. I'm still not sure if I do," he admitted.

"No, Draco," Hermione told him, reaching across the couch to put a hand on his arm. "I would love to take the credit for the metamorphosis, but I can't. _You _showed her it could be done._ You _led her away from all that she'd known. She trusts you, confides in you…and I've seen the way she looks at you."

"How?" Draco growled. He was pretty sure he didn't actually want to know.

"Like you're her cooler older brother. Like you know everything and she wants to be just like you."

Draco was surprised. He hadn't wanted to hear the other alternative from Hermione. It could only feel weird coming from her. "Oh. Well, she doesn't need me as an older brother. I'm not the best example."

"You're a perfect example!" Hermione exclaimed defensively. "You've undergone the change, too, Draco. You've shown her that it's possible to go from evil's child to…well, I don't know what, but it's something infinitely better."

"And you're so sure that I've changed?" Draco snapped, turning to look at Hermione, and she recognized something strange in his eyes. Unsure defiance.

"I—yes," she replied, alarmed. "Of course you've changed. You're sitting beside me as a peer. You've called me Hermione, and I call you Draco—"

"Hermione—"

"No, let me finish. We're friends, despite all your efforts otherwise. You _know _I care for you, and I have good reason."

"You don't know me nearly as well as you think you do," Draco warned, his voice disbelieving.

"I know you better than you think I do," Hermione retorted. "And I know you're more worried of hurting me right now than me hurting you." _God, so am I_, she thought. For so long these thoughts had been racing through her mind, doubtful and nagging. She was gravitating toward him, toward his tragic quietness, toward his handsome half-smile. She wanted him to talk to her how she had always imagined Ron would, and it was tearing her apart every time they were in the same room.

"Outside of these walls, it'll all change, Granger!" Draco snapped, his voice hard. "You'll be Weasley's girlfriend and Potter's best friend. And I'll be an outsider with, once again, no place. The Order doesn't like me, despite the fact they have to trust me. The Death Eaters hate me, even though they fear me. And I'll always be a _Pureblood_. I am worth more alive to the Death Eaters, traitor or not, than you will ever be as a Muggleborn. We can call ourselves equal, but we're in totally different places, you and I."

"Draco, are you trying to justify something else?" Hermione asked quietly.

Draco turned to look at Hermione, his eyes widening slightly. "No," he whispered.

"I think you are," she told him. "Stop it."

"Why? You are too sure that I've changed. I'm the same as I ever was," he started. "I've still got this evil thing on my arm, I still brought along the murder of Albus Dumbledore. I could have saved him. I could have put him on that broom and taken him before the others got there. But I didn't. I was a little boy with a promise and a wand, pointing it at a man that couldn't defend himself, or even hold himself up. He was leaned against a _wall_, Granger. He was using it as his support. He was _dying_. And I had to bring those damn Death Eaters into the castle. And Greyback," he whispered, his eyes filled with guilt, "he could have killed anyone. He could have hurt you or the Weasleys." Hermione didn't think now was the time to remind him Greyback _had _hurt a Weasley. "And after that, I still half believe that I can make up for those things by being as good as I can, by…" He looked away, thoughts on past events he couldn't possibly change.

Hermione had never in her life done anything daring, something that could truly blow up in her face and destroy everything, if it went wrong. She had done things close, but she hadn't crossed that line. Even worse, on the other side of that line were those things that blew up in your face when they went right. And she was treading that line with both feet, preparing to leap.

They were surprised when they met in the middle, but not for long. Their mouths connected, their eyes closed, and they were alone, save for the beating of their hearts and the rushing of their blood.

_I'm kissing Malfoy, _Hermione whimpered mentally. _I'm going to be in it so deep…_ "It." What had she meant by that? Of course, her mother had always used that phrase to mean deep, deep trouble. That was most likely what it meant.

_What the hell am I doing? _Draco thought to himself angrily. _I'm going to ruin everything for her. We'll never be able to let go of this incident, fortuitous or deliberate, and we'll both be scarred forever. _But he didn't care right now. All he could feel was her mouth on his, her hands in his, both their hearts beating loudly in synchronization.

They pulled apart, and both of them were breathing heavily, although not for lack of breath. Their eyes were wide, their mouths slightly agape, Hermione's hand on her chest, Draco's folded uselessly in his lap. Suddenly Hermione began to giggle, even though it was coming out shrill and slightly hysterical. The giggle turned into quite a bout of laughing, doubled over in her seat, her face red.

"What's so funny?" Draco demanded crossly. "That was a rather dramatic moment and now I feel rather insulted."

Hermione sat up in her seat, slowly composing herself. She covered her mouth with her hand, closing her eyes and breathing in through her nose, still snorting with ill-concealed laughter. Finally, she opened her mouth and said, "I've been wanting to do that all week, and it's just funny because…" She fell into another fit of laughter.

"Because of what?" Draco snapped icily.

"I wanted to kiss you for other reasons, of course, but I've been kind of wondering what it would be like kissing you. I thought it would be good, and it was, but it was quite a bit different from how I imagined it?"

"You imagined it?!" Draco yelped, pulling back.

"Oh yes, several times," Hermione admitted, seeming to have lost all hold of reality and propriety. "I kind of imagined it as a _sexy _kind of kissing. You know, Prince of Slytherin, the Whore of our year and all."

"Oh really?" Draco asked angrily, crossing his arms across his chest. This must have come off as a rather feminine gesture to Hermione, because she snorted laughingly. "Well?"

"Well what?" Hermione chuckled.

"Well, if it wasn't 'sexy,' then what was it?"

Hermione thought for a moment, staring pensively at the ceiling. "It was like…kissing in the rain."

"Is that some kind of Muggle cliché?" Draco asked her with a blank look.

"It's a _girl _cliché, silly. And boys have it, too. I've never been kissed in the rain. I bet it would be nice," Hermione said dreamily, then turned bright red. "I didn't just say that aloud!" she moaned unhappily.

"You did," Draco replied with a smirk. "You're such a typical woman, Granger."

"No, I'm not," she sniffed dismissively. "Anyway, now what?"

"Now," Draco told her, standing and moving away, "I go to bed. Good night."

"Sweet dreams," Hermione called at his retreated back.

Alone, she sat back, biting her lip. She had kissed Malfoy. For one thing, it had been damn good. She couldn't regret it just because it had been so…something. Electrifying. Different. Ron's kisses were so consistent, and although he was pretty good (due to her persistent teaching), he never changed anything about it. That was another reason to think twice about what she had done. Ron. He would be crushed if he found out she had kissed another man, especially the man he fancied his nemesis. _Way to give him another reason to hate Draco_, Hermione thought, very suddenly angry at herself. _Add girlfriend thief to Draco's list of crimes against humanity_.

_You kissed him_, another voice said.

_I met him in the middle_, she growled at the voice angrily. _He kissed me, too, and even if I was the one that initiated, he kissed me back. There was no forcing _anyone's _lips._

_Still, this is your fault, not Draco's. And if this comes back to haunt you, make sure Draco doesn't get the crap end of it. He didn't do anything wrong. You didn't _have _to kiss him_.

_He knew I had a boyfriend. He knew I was off limits._

_Stop trying to pin the blame on everyone but yourself._

_Shut up!_

_If you insist…_

The voice that was undoubtedly her conscience fell silent, and Hermione was left with no more thoughts. She refused to allow herself to dwell on it for too long, and therefore picked up her book, _Anna Karenina_, from the coffee table. She'd once read it when she was fourteen, and it had been difficult then. But now she was used to this kind of book, and she enjoyed it thoroughly. She opened it, preparing herself for Tolstoy's depressing atmosphere, for his crushing romance. Her admiration for such a man increased tenfold for every book she read by him, and she'd read this book before, so it was like he was getting a bonus. Every time she reread a book after going through a major change, her view of the book changed accordingly, and therefore she had two impressions of that book—or more, depending on how many times she'd read the books…and how much she'd changed.

She sighed dramatically. This book, thus far, had proven that she'd indeed changed. But by how much?

Draco took off his robes, placed his wand on the stand, and lay down in his bed. He reached over and shut off the light, placed both palms under his head, and closed his eyes. His guard down, every thought he'd been holding off rushed at him like pit bulls on a raw steak.

_She has a boyfriend._

_You're going to end up hurt._

_She's going to end up hurt._

_The Weasel's going to end up hurt._

_It didn't mean anything—it was driven by lust._

_She doesn't mean anything._

_Oh god, what the hell did I do?_

_Morrigan would be so hurt._

Draco's eyes snapped open immediately. _Morrigan_? he mouthed to the dark. _What does she have to do with this?_

_Everything_, responded his conscience, and he shook his head to rid himself of the thought, but it wouldn't go away. _Morrigan is crazy about you. She holds you in every esteem Hermione does, possibly more._

_The problem_, Draco snapped angrily at the annoying little tittering voice, _is that it's slightly more complicated than that. Hermione is the more obvious choice—_

Draco stopped mid-thought. CHOICE?! "Oh Merlin," he moaned angrily. "I'm to choices." He rolled out of bed and began to pace.

He didn't know either of them well enough to even begin liking them romantically.

_Sure you do_, that nasty voice said. _You've done far more with girls you've known far less_.

"I'm different now," he snarled aloud.

_Ha! Look what happened with Hermione. Or have you forgotten her lips on yours, her hands in yours, her heart beating with yours, her tongue—_

"Stop it!" he hissed. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, getting back into bed.

_This is, of course, more than a mental attraction_, the voice said again, surprising him. He had been thinking of it in reference of mental attraction, then, not physical attraction. "That's a change," he grumbled.

_They're lovely girls, and if you're going to judge by looks, Morrigan would be undoubtedly the most obvious choice. Those lovely dark blue eyes, the long black hair, fair skin, high cheekbones, silky voice as smooth as chocolate, perfect hips--it's no wonder the Dark Lord kept her close. She was like poisoned chocolate—a deadly delicacy…._

"Stop thinking like that!" Draco cried aloud. "She's immature and naïve, and she doesn't understand her own emotions."

_Ah yes, that. It's actually rather endearing. But she does hold you in high esteem, doesn't she? And what about Hermione? She obviously likes you quite a bit. She's smart and charming, sweet and sincere. How could you say no to that?_

_Easily. She has a boyfriend. She's not my type._

The voice chuckled. _She opened you up, she made you charming. She made you sincere._

"I was always that way," Draco whispered. "I was just careful about who I showed it to."

_Sure, sure. Have you forgotten? "I'd rather be Flaherty's friend than a snot-headed Gryffindor who can't mind her own business."_

That was before.

_Exactly. Before you were charming and sincere. But no, that couldn't be. After all, that statement is the object of sincerity._

Gee, you're so nice.

_Hey, I'm you. The cynical, always-right side of you. You should let me come out into the open more._

I used to do that. And then I said some regrettable things.

_No, it was your judgment that allowed those words to pass your lips. I merely spawned them._

Yeah, you are a pretty big asshole, aren't you?

_What's that supposed to mean?_

That I'm better off without you.

_No you're—_

Draco turned over on his side and almost immediately fell asleep.

* * *

_Sorry for the shortness of that chapter. I had already condensed two chapters to make this one, and I didn't want to do it again, also because the next chapter doesn't need six pages, because combining them would make it really long and I'm not exactly cool with that. >._


	8. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: Canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Media.

**Chapter Eight: Analyzing Morrigan**

Hermione woke the next morning with a strange feeling in her stomach. It was as if something was jumping around in there with no consideration of the owner. _Oh god, I kissed Malfoy last night_, she thought to herself, rolling out of bed. She dressed slowly, unwilling to brave the awkwardness of the kitchen. Draco would be there, silent and brooding as usual. Morrigan would be inquisitive and observant. And she, Hermione, would be embarrassed and cautious. Hermione picked her clothing with care. For some reason it was important that she looked good. Perhaps she wanted Draco to notice her more, or maybe just look more confident than she felt. She picked her favorite robes over a knee-length pleated skirt and short-sleeved blouse.

Hermione closed the door quietly behind her as she left. She flipped her hair over her head for a moment so she could put it up into a ponytail, then descended to the doom below.

Draco was sitting at the table, a newspaper sitting in front of him, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He looked up when she came in, then looked quickly back down, averting his eyes embarrassedly. _So he's rather ashamed of last night, too_, she thought grimly. _Good._

Morrigan had already finished breakfast. This morning she'd made buttered scones, sausages, and eggs sunny side up. Hermione helped herself to the food, muttering a quiet hello to her peers at the table. Morrigan looked at Draco and Hermione and said casually, "My, we do seem subdued today."

Hermione looked up quickly, her eyes frozen on Draco's. He didn't look up, but simply said in a dull tone, "Hermione lost a bet last night."

"Oh really?" Morrigan asked with a sly grin. "What was the bet, Hermione?"

"I thought…I thought you would make kippers this morning," she said lamely.

"I made kippers yesterday," Morrigan remarked. "You know I hate making the same thing day after day."

"Yeah, I must have forgotten," Hermione muttered, still not looking up.

"What did she bet, Draco?" Morrigan asked him, and he looked up, his expression mild.

"Oh…ten Galleons."

Morrigan winced. "Ouch, that's a bit much to bet, don't you think? I bet Draco set the price, nasty rich bugger." She laughed and the other two cringed inwardly at this remark. Lying to Morrigan felt horrible, and both of them were sagging with guilt. "Hermione, you should rest today. You've been working all week. It is Saturday, you know."

"What did you have in mind?" Hermione asked, trying to move away from the previous subject.

"What about chess?" Morrigan asked with a sly grin.

Hermione groaned. "I'm terrible at chess."

"I'm not," Draco said with a smirk. "I'll play you."

"And I'll win," Morrigan announced, her smile broad and arrogant.

"Ha!" Draco snorted. "I haven't been beaten since my first year at Hogwarts, and that was by a seventh year."

"You must not play that often," Morrigan retorted. "Don't worry, I won't beat you too bad."

"I'm quivering in my boots," Draco told her wryly.

The three finished up their plates, Morrigan anxious for the game of chess. Hermione offered to clean up, and Morrigan accepted graciously. Draco and Morrigan left their plates where they were, and with a backward glance at Hermione, Draco led Morrigan into the sitting room. "There's a chess set in the corner," he said, and spotting it, levitated it onto the coffee table. Morrigan sat cross-legged on the floor, across from Draco. The board opened to reveal a lovely set of ebony and ivory pieces. The tops of each bore a tiny emerald.

"This is lovely," Morrigan murmured in a low voice, then said louder, "I'm black."

"As you like it," Draco acquiesced, inclining his head.

They set up the board, each piece sitting firmly in its place. "Go ahead, Draco," Morrigan told him amusedly. He moved his left bishop pawn first, and thus began the game.

They bent over the board for long hours, sometimes unspeaking for thirty minutes at a time, other times holding long conversations. Each piece lost was few and far in between. It was no doubt that both were good players, and well matched. For every piece one had lost, the other had lost the same. Hermione showed no interest in the game. Each time she would enter the room and see them still playing, she would throw up her hands and leave, interjecting a frustrated phrase, such as, "Oh, those two!"

As the time passed, Morrigan noticed that Draco was watching her closely. His eyes mightn't be focused on her, but he was always watching her, marking her every move, as if he were memorizing it for future reference. It was rather creepy, but at the same time, flattering. She wanted Draco to be watching her often. Morrigan ever sought a nod of approval or murmured agreement. Every time it happened, she would blush with joy, although to admit it to anyone would surely mortify her to death.

They had to break for lunch, which was a quiet ordeal. Hermione had switched meals with Draco for today, and she had made submarine sandwiches with ham, cheese, and spicy mustard. Both Draco and Morrigan finished quickly, and returned to the sitting room to continue their game.

They had moved about the board so much they were no longer defending sides and were instead defending corners while brutally attacking the other. Both became careless with fatigue at the game and they lost more pieces in fifteen minutes than they had the entire game. Now Morrigan was left with a pawn, her queen, a bishop, her rook, and her king. Draco had his king, his queen, a knight, and a rook.

Suddenly Draco saw an opening and took it, his queen putting Morrigan's king in check. Too late he noticed that Morrigan could take his queen. With a triumphant cackle, she replaced his queen with her own on the board. Draco swore, studying the pieces. "Aha!" he exclaimed, and his rook took her own queen. Now they were left with bit pieces and their kings. Morrigan's pawn took Draco's knight, but the rook put a stop to her bishop and pawn before she could carry out further damage. Morrigan's king inched after her rook, all the while avoiding check. Finally she backed the rook into a corner, two spaces from the king with nowhere to go, since moving her rook would mean putting the king in check and taking her piece was out of the option. Morrigan's king moved away, unable to get the pawn for fear of being in check. Then Draco made a dumb move and tried to protect the other side of the king, two spaces from the king's protecting arm. Morrigan's king snatched the rook and threw it at the crumpled heap of pieces, all taken out of the game. The game was tied, neither had won.

Morrigan shook Draco's hand sportingly, then pulled her hand away shyly, embarrassed at the direct contact. She sat on the couch, turning in her seat and placing her feet up on the cushion, just by Draco. "Good game," she quipped, forcing a normal smile.

"Yeah," he replied. "We should do that again soon."

Morrigan looked down, unsure of what to say. When had things gotten so awkward between them?

_They've never been normal_, she thought to herself brutally.

"I read some of that Mythology book," she told him.

He looked at her piercingly. "Oh yes? Did you find any that you particularly liked?"

"I seem to recall more about Cu Chulainn," she answered slowly. "I don't really understand some of them."

"What don't you understand?" Draco asked with a frown.

"I don't understand the Tristan and Iseult one, actually. I've read it several times, and it just…I don't get it," she said, her voice a little irate.

"It's all right if you don't understand. This is all very new to you. What about it is so confusing?"

"So much of it," Morrigan confessed. "I don't understand why Iseult fell in love with Tristan in the first place. They barely knew each other."

Draco knew he had to choose his words carefully. Whatever he said now could affect her impression of love later. "They were fated to love each other, Morrigan."

"The stars can't make me do anything I don't want to. I'll change them if I have to," she scoffed stubbornly.

"Okay, if this is easier for you, I imagine what really happened was that Tristan adored the beautiful young woman that saved his life not once, not twice, but three times—she'd saved him from the poison, hid him from her mother, and hadn't killed him herself. This gratitude and adoration quickly became infatuation. Tristan himself, I have read, was an exceptionally good-looking young man with a heart of gold, and supposedly honorable and loyal. Iseult wouldn't have been able to keep herself from such an admirer. After all, Tristan did all he could to make Iseult Mark's."

"Except sleep with his wife," Morrigan cut in dryly.

Draco nodded. "Iseult and Tristan didn't have much choice. They were so helplessly in love with each other, they couldn't stop themselves. The love potion made them so obsessed with one another that it might have literally driven them mad with desire."

"That was stupid of Iseult's mother, by the way," Morrigan said, crinkling her nose. "She should have known that it was an _awfully _long trip between the islands."

Draco sighed. "You'd be surprised what parents do for their children."

Morrigan froze up. "Would I?" she asked coldly.

"Sorry," Draco said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend. Obviously Iseult's mother wanted her daughter to be happy with whatever course her mother chose for her."

"Well she should have let Iseult make her own decisions."

Draco gave her a look. "You understand how those things worked then. You understand how they work _now_. Rarely do parents allow for their children, most especially those with perfect pedigrees, what they, their children, want. Tristan was an orphan, a mere knight. His political value was next to null. No, Mark was the wise choice. If Iseult had been clever enough to see it, she could have appreciated Mark, too."

"Mark was the safe road," Morrigan scoffed. "Iseult was right in doing what she wanted. Women have always been men's playthings in British society. If what she wanted was Tristan, she should have gotten Tristan. Besides, women were socially superior in her own society. Going from a feminist culture to a machoist one was hardly fair, nor easy."

"You're right," Draco agreed. "Would you have picked Tristan if you had been Iseult?"

Morrigan laughed. "I would have run away and picked my own life," she told him. "Depending on males because you love them destroys lives."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "You sure this is always the case?"

"Yes," Morrigan enumerated with great certainty. "Always."

"Don't be so sure," Draco warned her. "Sometimes you'll find that women have based their lives around men since birth, and have always been happy doing so."

"But it's…never mind," Morrigan sighed.

Draco smiled amusedly. "You'll understand someday, perhaps."

"I hope not," Morrigan said, crinkling her nose.

Hermione stuck her head in the door way, looking around. "Is it safe?" she asked them. Seeing that they were only conversing, she walked in the room confidently. "What were you talking about?" she asked idly, sitting down in the armchair.

"Life," Draco told her simply.

"Yes, it's always changing," Hermione said cryptically.

Draco laughed. "Okay, Trelawney."

"That is in no way Trelawney-esque," Hermione protested. "It made too much sense."

"True," Draco conceded.

"Who was Trelawney?" Morrigan asked.

Hermione made a face, then said, "Trelawney was this teacher from Hogwarts. A 'professor' of divination." She snorted. "Professor of divination indeed! That dingbat couldn't divine a sheep from a dragon."

Morrigan's face took on a fascinated glow. "Did you enjoy your time at Hogwarts? Both of you," she added, looking between the two past students.

"I did," Hermione said. "Hogwarts was home." Her face clouded over dreamily, remembering feasts and friends.

"There were four houses, correct?" Morrigan asked.

"Yes, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff…What does that name remind me of?" Morrigan muttered, scratching her head. "Oh!" She cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. "The Dark Lord has a cup in his library, on a shelf, that's some relic of Hufflepuff. I don't know what it's for, but it's rather lovely."

Hermione looked excited. "You're sure it's Hufflepuff?" she asked, leaning toward Morrigan and taking her hands in her own. Morrigan shrunk back in alarm.

"Yes, quite," she confirmed in startled tones. "Why?"

Hermione looked happy enough to burst. "I can't tell you why, but next time you see Harry, tell him this."

"_Why?_" Morrigan asked, her face turning red for irritation.

"I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to tell. Harry might tell you, though, if you tell him," Hermione explained.

Morrigan sat back, crossing her arms and fuming. Draco smiled his little half-smile at her frustrated stance. "It's all right," Morrigan sighed, relaxing her shoulders. "I'm just used to being told is all." She bit her lip, then said, "You know, when I was with the Dark Lord. It seems like it was so long ago."

Hermione froze at this information. She knew in that moment that Morrigan was going to elaborate on her relationship with Voldemort, which was something Hermione had previously stayed away from.

"You know I stood at his right hand at all times. I was Death Eater royalty, the duchess of the bunch. He showered me in gifts for doing his bidding, even though it wasn't that hard. He told me what to do to whom, and I did it. I disposed of Tanya Avery, Ranjani Patil, and so many other people. And for every one, he gave me a souvenir to remember each death by. I have a ring of Shiva for Patil. You know what he gave me for torturing that Weasley girl?"

Hermione shook her head, eyes wide and horrified.

"The Potter mission. I don't know what their relationship is, but there's obviously some or he wouldn't connect the two."

"That's ridiculous!" Hermione snorted.

"Is it?" Draco asked. "Why would he go after Weasley? And why didn't he kill her? He let her go and gave Weasley her wand when they left her. It's the only plausible explanation. He likes connections, Voldemort. And he likes pain. More than anything, he liked the idea of Weasley's torturer being Potter's kidnapper. Make Morrigan responsible for the death. Give Ginny double reason to fight back. I don't know why he wanted to do that to Morrigan, or maybe he just wanted to piss the Order off. I don't know, but it was not a coincidence."

Morrigan shook her head at Hermione. "Draco's right. The Dark Lord hates coincidences. He hates fate. He picks every detail; he loves ceremony, symbols. Everything is significant to him. Everything."

"Morrigan," Hermione whispered. "How on earth did you end up in the ranks of the Dark Lord?"

Morrigan paused, her mouth half open, her expression thoughtful. "I suppose it's time I told you." She threw a glance at Draco, who nodded silently. And Morrigan began.

* * *

Hermione didn't know what to say when Morrigan concluded, and she said so.

"Don't," Morrigan told her shortly. "You'd just be wasting your breath. You…you and Draco had parents, had loving homes, and you chose what you'd become. Every time Draco called me a monster, I ignored him because I agreed. I thought I was a beautiful monster, powerful and strong. I was made, I didn't choose my path, and I was _proud_. But when he told me I never should have been born, something cracked. That couldn't be true. I was beautiful; I was faultless. I was a perfected creature. I didn't have emotion, and any earthly ties had long since been severed. I floated feelingless through my life, watching as if from above. Every scream I heard, every writhing body I watched…it was just another pawn, another tool for my lord." She laughed dully, a sound unpleasant and insincere. "Voldemort was the perfect master. I did his bidding, I was loyal, I swore fealty to him. But it was like following an old, outdated religion. I only believed half of it, only followed it when it suited me, just went through the motions. It just happened that most of it suited me, but if it hadn't, that wouldn't have mattered. I might have found something that did suit me. The bottom line is that I was like every other pathetic creature clinging on to the Dark Lord for support and power. He gave me what I wanted."

"But the letter," Draco said in a low tone. "That letter…"

"Irrelevant," Morrigan snorted. "I was so consumed by my self-righteousness, I actually believed I believed that. I didn't, of course. It was too easy for me to turn, to transform to what you knew was right. I liked the Darkness because it felt good. It felt _good _to have someone, someone I believed below me, screaming at my feet. It felt _good _to be rewarded for my crimes. I didn't care who I was hurting, or even that I was hurting myself. I just cared that I got what felt good right then. And until now, it's never caught up with me."

Her face looked, for the first time, old and haggard. Her eyes sagged, her shoulders slumped, and her hands laid limp in her lap, useless. Hermione's pity overwhelmed her. "You can make up for it, Morrigan," she whispered, her face white.

"Make up for it!" Morrigan snapped, her voice hard and bitter. "So, you don't mind sitting next to a murderer, a stupid killer, who doesn't have a conscience? I'll admit it, you didn't have a name until a few weeks ago. You were 'the Mudblood.' Always 'the Mudblood.' I couldn't remember your first name. I didn't want to. You were just something else to be used." Her facial features softened and she turned to look at Hermione, whose lip was trembling and her eyes watering. "Then I learned that I was stupid. That I didn't know what the hell I was talking about. I was pretentious and insolent. Ignorant. Blind. The list continues evermore. And I can't do a damn thing to save myself, nor any of the people whose lives I've destroyed."

"Morrigan—"

"Do you think Patil's family would want to stand in the same room with me after what I did to their mother? I promised her life if she gave me the information I wanted, and she gave it to me, but I killed her anyway. And then I laughed. Because she was naïve, and stupid, and weaker than I."

"Stop it!" Hermione hissed. "That isn't you anymore, and you can't change what you were, so _stop it_."

Morrigan seemed to wake up from her feverish self-reprimanding. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I should never have said that."

"No, you shouldn't," Hermione snapped. "Don't ever speak like that again. It will only make things get bad again. You were…almost like the old Morrigan for a moment."

"Was I?" Morrigan asked in a tired voice, rubbing her eyes. She leaned back against the couch, her head resting against the back and closed her eyes. There was a long silence as Morrigan thought, and Draco and Hermione watched her cautiously. Finally, "I always hated the color black. Orange was far more appealing."

"Orange?" Draco asked in an amused voice. "The Dark Disciple of Voldemort prefers orange to all other colors?"

"Yes, Draco, I do," she said, cracking an eye to look at him. "It's a very attractive color."

"If you say so," he replied in an amused voice. "You're a very strange girl. You thrived in the dark, but you were reaching for the light. You hate black, a color we can associate with your past, and you like orange, bright and warm, indicative of your future."

"Is it, indeed, indicative of my future?" Morrigan asked him, her voice light.

"Yes," he told her firmly. "You've come a very long way."

"If you say so," she sighed.

"What brought this all out, besides the prompting argument?" Hermione asked Morrigan after a long pause.

Morrigan sat up, then looked down at her hands. "I've been having nightmares."

"Oh. What sort of nightmares?" Hermione asked, unfazed by night terrors.

"You don't understand," Morrigan said crossly. "I've never had nightmares before. Or none that I can remember."

"Never?" Hermione asked her incredulously.

"Never," Morrigan insisted, shaking her head. "I've slept dreamlessly since I can remember."

"What are the nightmares of?" Hermione asked gently.

"Past victims," Morrigan sighed. "I can see their faces in my head. Over and over, screaming…" She shook her head as if trying to shake the images out forcibly.

"It _will _get better," Hermione told her. "I promise."

"I hope you can keep that promise," Morrigan grumbled. "I'm getting tired of this. No matter, though," she continued. "There's nothing I can do for these people, and I need to start working to try anyway. I haven't figured out how, but I'll think of something."

Hermione took Morrigan's hand in her own and smiled at her. "We will," she promised, squeezing her hand.

Draco's feelings of protectiveness went up another notch, his heart clenching as he watched these two remarkable women forge a new friendship, unlikely and bold.

* * *

If one wishes to read more about Tristan and Iseult, go here (but take out all the spaces):

h t tp : / / e n . w i k i p e d i a . o r g / w i k i / T r i s t a n a n d I s e u l t

You'll find a wealth of information that will somewhat catch you up on the legend of which I was writing.


	9. Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: Canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Media.

**Chapter Nine: The Friend of My Friend Does **_**Not **_**Have to Be My Friend**

"That potion is _not _effective as an antidote."

"Yes it is!" Hermione insisted, pointing at the potion book. All three were sitting on the couch, Hermione between Morrigan and Draco, a book in her lap. They were all looking down at the book, eagerly perusing the pages.

"No, it's not. See, lacewing. That counteracts St. John's Wort."

"Oh poppycock!" Hermione snapped. "Who told you that?"

"Severus Snape himself," Morrigan said smugly.

"Oh, and did he just thrust this random bit of information into your hands one day? 'Here, Ms. Flaherty. Hope it comes in handy next time you're debating with Hermione Granger.'"

"No. I tried to make another potion with the same ingredients and it didn't work. I explained to him what I did and he told me why."

"Well, he has to be wrong. I've used this at least twice on Harry and it worked fine."

"When on earth have you needed to administer antidotes to Harry?" demanded Morrigan shrilly. "Why would _you_?"

"Because I was the only one available."

"Oh, and you just _happened _to have lacewing available, as opposed to a more experienced Healer."

"Fine," Hermione snapped. "I lied…a little. I've never administered it, but I've concocted it and given it to Lupin."

"And how did that work?" Morrigan demanded triumphantly.

"He didn't say," Hermione sniffed.

"Ha! I win!"

"Enough!" Draco bellowed. "Morrigan wins by better argument. Really Hermione, you're smarter. You should be able to argue more effectively."

"Hey!" both girls yelled simultaneously.

"I am not dumber than Hermione," Morrigan protested.

"And I'm trying my hardest but she's so difficult to argue with!" Hermione whined.

"How so?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Even when she _knows _she's wrong, she won't give up!"

"Oh, and you're not the same way at _all_," Morrigan said sarcastically.

"I'm not," Hermione claimed, sticking her nose in the air. For a moment no one moved. Finally the three burst into laughter

"What are you doing?" asked a voice. All three turned to see Ginny in the doorway, arms folded and her face reddening.

Ron walked in the room, the grin on his face evaporating quickly. Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Remus Lupin, and Harry all came to a stop in the doorway, each with an identical expression of shock.

To make matters worse, Draco, Hermione, and Morrigan jumped up immediately, spreading apart—which only served to make each look exceedingly guilty.

"Is there a reason why _she's _out of her cell?" Ginny growled angrily. "_Hermione?_"

"She's not really a prisoner now," Hermione insisted. "She's…well, that is to say…I guess…she's changed."

"Oh yes?" Ginny asked, her voice rising to a shout. No one moved as she began to rail on them. "She's no more than You-Know-Who's _pet _and you're letting her roam free through the house. Even _more_, you're acting as if you're good friends, like you actually like each other!"

"I do!" Hermione persisted. "Morrigan's nice, if you got to know her—"

"Hermione, you're defending a murderer! A monster!"

"That's enough!" Morrigan cried, and both shut up immediately. "In the event that you've forgotten that I'm right here, I'll just remind you, and no matter what you say, I know what I am, and Hermione knows what I am, and it seems more so than you do, _Miss _Weasley. Now, if you will kindly remember that Hermione is your friend, and not your own 'pet,' you'll find that there's an explanation."

"That's enough, Morrigan," Draco said, and Morrigan fell silent, although her face had flushed and she looked ready to jump at Ginny and cut out her throat. "Hermione and I decided that Morrigan proved well enough that she had become something a bit more and forgot her slightly…er, murderous habits. She's been moved to the upstairs."

"Draco, let me handle this," Hermione whispered.

Ron's eyes narrowed, looking between them. "Oh, so you're pretty cozy now, are you?" he asked quietly, looking his old school nemesis up and down. "Have you forgotten that I'm still alive, Malfoy, or had you been hoping that since you didn't have to see me, I'd gone from the face of the earth?"

"I don't care whether you're alive or not," Draco said coolly. "It doesn't matter one way or the other."

"Oh, so you'll try to win Hermione over either way?"

"Win me over?!" Hermione shrieked. "Do you trust me so little Ron?"

Finally recovering from his shock, Lupin stepped in, silently cursing at himself for letting it get this far. "That's enough. You need to figure this out in private. Flaherty, I think it best that you go to your room for now." He pointed to basement but Morrigan's lip curled beautifully, and Draco was privately proud of her expression. No doubt she had learned it from he himself.

"My room is at the top of the stairs, old man," she snarled. "And I'll stay where I am. I'm not hurting anyone."

"Morrigan, let's go," Draco said quietly. "We don't want to be in the middle of this. We're too far in the focus of it as it is."

Morrigan led the way to the stairs, with Draco following her quietly, placing a hand on her back gently, doing exactly as he had promised—holding her up.

* * *

Molly, Remus, and Arthur all sat around the table, each with similar worried expressions. "It's rather unconvincing that she's changed," Remus muttered in low tones.

"She seemed to genuinely care for Hermione," Arthur said. "That's not the care you can purchase, either. She was prepared to stand between them like a dragon and her eggs. And Hermione a Muggleborn!" He shook his head. "The girl you've described would not have done that."

"How can we trust her to be genuine?" Remus asked, leaning over the table, trying to keep his voice hushed. "She could pretend to be reformed and then damn us all to Voldemort. She could be a very good actress."

"Maybe Mad-Eye can come take a look at her…" Mrs. Weasley suggested, but Remus shook his head.

"He tried, Harry tried, and I bet even Draco's tried…although it seems if he did find something, Draco wouldn't be much of a help. He seems to be nuts about the girl, too."

"He wasn't a month ago," Mrs. Weasley replied doubtfully. "That boy was staring daggers at her. I was glad he was looking at her, not me…" She repressed a shudder as she remembered the exact expression on his face as Draco learned he would be spending the next few weeks with Morrigan.

"Yeah, but you know how kids are," Arthur told Molly. "As much as I hate to even consider the possibility, the girl is very pretty. She shares a night with Malfoy, and the boy fancies himself in love. She has him hook, line, and sinker."

"Oh please!" Molly hissed. "Malfoy's smarter than that. He wouldn't sink to that level."

"Lucius would have," Arthur cautioned her. "I wouldn't put it past his son."

"Look," Remus cut in, "It's agreed the girl can't be trusted. But I _don't _think she seduced, Malfoy. He seemed to be more in charge of her than the other way around. She depended on both Hermione and Draco for support. Every move she made, she glanced at the boy to make sure he thought it was okay. It's more likely that Draco seduced her to make her more docile and easier to break. She takes his word as law. He tells her to be nice to Hermione. It makes things easier, so he doesn't have to constantly make sure Flaherty's not trying to _kill _Hermione."

"Flaherty likes Hermione," Arthur said shortly. "That girl wouldn't touch Hermione if Draco told her to, and it wouldn't work vice versa."

"You're sure?" Remus asked.

"Positive," Arthur affirmed. "Look, this girl tortured my daughter and did it without flinching. But if those two actually did change her, we need to congratulate them for the renovation, because of all Death Eaters, she would be the hardest to change."

"I'm just incredulous at her familiarity with Hermione," Mrs. Weasley said with a shake of her head. "She seemed so comfortable, so friendly. Like she…like she trusted her. If she's as good an actress as that…she was in the right profession before we captured her," she finished. "Lying is first nature for that crowd. I hope she wasn't lying. I would hate for Hermione's trust to be broken like that."

All three adults nodded, their eyes flickering with doubt and worry.

* * *

Ginny and Ron look remarkably similar, especially when extremely angry. Their ears turn bright red, their freckles seem to enflame, and their eyes narrow to slits. Their necks shorten into their shoulders, which seem to come up, and their arms lay rigid at their sides with their fists clenched.

Right now, both were angry with Hermione, but for different reasons, so Hermione alone stood to defend herself, knowing that this was the best way to fight them. With Morrigan or Draco beside her, things would be much worse.

"Why the hell did you think it was okay to be _friends _with that creature?"

"I wasn't friends with her until she _changed_," Hermione pleaded. "Draco and I have been able to make some real progress—"

"Draco?!" snapped Ron. "Draco? Why is it _Draco_?" he sneered scathingly. "I remember when you used to insist on calling him Malfoy, the same as everyone else. Did you forget what happened to you so many times because of him?"

"You'd remember anything," Hermione snarled, "if it means bringing it up later when it most conveniences you. You're so predictable, Ron. Harry was the only 'safe' male for me to be around, because you didn't have to worry about someone being better than you. And even Harry bothered you sometimes."

"Leave me out of this," Harry said, walking in the room with both hands up. "I don't want anything to do with it."

"You couldn't stand my relationship with Viktor, and if I was in any near proximity of another male, if I seemed to be enjoying their presence, you'd latch on to some other girl and try to make me jealous. But I always trusted you. Isn't that remarkable? Maybe I should dye my hair and put on a Venetian robe. Yeah, that's what I'll do. Start calling me Desdemona, will you? I'll call you Othello, Morrigan can be Iago, and Draco can be Cassio."

"What's that?" snapped Ron.

"Oh, right, you know about _Marvin the Muggle_, or whatever the hell that is, but you can't even read real literature. Real Muggle literature."

"Hermione, that's rather irrelevant right now," Harry called from the couch, looking up from the Potion book.

"I thought you wanted to wanted to stay out of this," Hermione growled in a terrible voice.

"Sorry," Harry replied meekly, going back to the potions.

"That aside, Hermione, you've managed to stay for a month in a house with two people that you should, by all rights, _hate_, and you managed to come out best mates with them," Ginny scowled.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Ginny!" Hermione said exasperatedly. "You'll always be my best friends, but should I be unhappy my entire stay here? Draco and I came to an agreement, and not long later, Morrigan began showing signs of alteration. She was crying out for help. Should I have ignored her? Left her a murderer? Because it seems like you're condemning her for changing, and you're condemning her for being the old Morrigan, so which is it? Or are you going to condemn her either way? Does she have any direction to go without your disapproval?"

"I don't have to approve of her!" Ginny shouted. "I don't have to like her! I can hate her if I want!"

"Well that's not what she wants!" Hermione yelled back.

"I don't care what she wants! I didn't want to be tortured, did I?"

"Well you're fine now!" screamed Hermione. "You're obsessing about this, Ginny! Let it go! The Longbottoms are _insane_, and you're living your life normally! You can see your family; you can control your bowels, your mouth! Be grateful, would you?"

"I shouldn't have to be grateful!" Ginny hissed. "Because until you've been under that, you don't understand!"

"I do understand, and I have been under that Curse! Or have you forgotten?"

Ginny's face turned pale as she did indeed remember. A mission had gone astray one night, a year and a half ago, and Hermione had barely gotten out alive. She had barely been able to sleep for a month after that night. It was Ginny that stayed by her as she relived the nightmare over and over again.

"No," Ginny whispered, looking away.

"That man's son has become a great friend to me, and I'm okay that it was his father. I'm just fine with it. In fact, I pity Lucius Malfoy. I don't hate him. I hope to god for Draco's sake that someday he gets better. But I guess a bit of compassion would kill other people."

"Your compassion is insane!" Ginny cried self-righteously. "It lacks wisdom."

"If Lucius genuinely apologized to me, I would accept," Hermione said. "Because I've seen what guilt can do to a person. I understand that it can rip you apart. And if I accept Morrigan's apologies for myself, for what she was, then I can live with her, I can accept her as she _is_. I don't want to live with the burden of hatred on my mind. It takes energy to actively hate people. And if I don't have to hate them, why should I?"

"Fine," Ginny snapped. "It's your decision. But I won't like her. I won't forgive her. She deserves what she gets after what she's done."

Hermione scowled, then turned to Ron. "Well? Do you have anything to say?"

"You sure you don't want to be with Malfoy instead?" he asked in a surly voice.

"Positive," Hermione replied softly. He looked up at her with a reassured smile, and Hermione finally walked up to him, throwing her arms around him. She pulled back slightly and kissed him on the mouth, but she couldn't help but to think that maybe she'd rather be kissing Draco.

* * *

Hermione found her way to the kitchen where the three adults were talking in hushed voices. "Hi," Remus said, interrupting Arthur, whose mouth shut with a snap. "Is the storm finished?" he asked, referring to the fighting in the living room.

"Yes," Hermione sighed. "It was not fun at all."

"You're sure about your decision? About Morrigan, I mean."

"Yes," Hermione affirmed resolutely. "Morrigan was very troubled. She lived a hard life. She never learned right from wrong. I had to teach her the difference."

"It sounds so easy," Remus said, smiling.

"Ha!" Hermione snorted. "I almost thought it was impossible. She resisted, but she was changing before she even realized she was."

"You really mean that?" Arthur asked, his head turned slightly to the side.

"I do," Hermione told them quietly, her expression quite serious. "Morrigan is ready to prove herself."

"If you insist," Remus sighed.

* * *

When the shouting stopped, Morrigan and Draco descended the stairs; having decided to determine what was going on now. They went into the sitting room, where Ginny, Ron, Harry and Hermione were situated comfortably.

Harry pulled up a chair for both and said, "They're pretty sure you're on the good side now, Flaherty."

Morrigan just stared at him. She had obviously been crying, and he almost felt bad for her. It was rather difficult to be too sympathetic after what she'd done to Ginny, though, and these thoughts of pity quickly vanished, regardless of Hermione's defense.

"Look, I want to offer you a job. If you're definitely on our side, I want you to go back to Voldemort's fortress and spy."

Morrigan flinched, then leaned away from him. "I'm sorry, no, I can't."

"Why not?" Harry asked crossly. "Without Malfoy there, we've got nobody."

"I just escaped from the darkness, why would I go back?" Morrigan demanded angrily. "Or don't you people understand anything the first time it's said?" Harry's other three companions were watching, frozen.

"Look, you could make up for the things you've done."

"That's really low, Potter," Morrigan growled. "You know who you sound like? The Dark Lord. I've heard him use the same ploy on more people than I can count on two hands. And they always end up dead. So you think I'm taking you up on that offer? Hell no."

"At least I'm willing to give something up for others."

"I don't see you volunteering for the job," Morrigan sneered.

"Yes, I'd be the perfect candidate," Harry said sarcastically. '"Excuse me, could you do me a favor and stop trying to kill me for a moment so I can listen to what you're saying?"'

"Find someone else, I'm not doing it," Morrigan told him finally.

"Can't you convince her, Malfoy?" Harry asked angrily, turning to his fellow classmate. Already Draco was regretting having sat down with a group of people that hated him and Morrigan.

He paused, glancing at Morrigan, before answering, "I can't do that."

"Why not?" Harry demanded.

"I don't think she's the best candidate for the job either. Why should she go into the bleak world when all she wanted was to be out of it?"

"Yeah, she seemed so reluctant," Ginny snorted, but Harry silenced her with a look.

"Look, Malfoy, I realize that you don't like me, but you have to put that behind you."

"Actually, Potter, Granger and I are the only ones that seem to have done that. You don't see _us _bringing it up every five minutes."

"Oh please," Harry growled. "You've always been jealous—"

"Shut up, Potter. Draco wasn't attacking you, he was just rebuking your argument," Morrigan defended Draco.

"I don't have to listen to a coward," Harry sneered at Morrigan, and instantly Draco, Morrigan, and Hermione leapt to their feet.

"Harry!" Hermione snapped. "That's enough!"

"Oh, so you trust them, Hermione?"

"Of course I do! They're my friends, and they alone have been acting rationally here today, so I suggest you back off. All of you," she warned Ginny and Ron.

With a furious snort, Ginny tramped out of the room, down the hallway, and out of the house with a slam. Ron looked furiously between Hermione and Draco for a moment, and followed his sister out of the house. Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, and Lupin hurried into the sitting room. "What happened?" Molly asked wearily.

"Ron and Ginny left," Hermione replied shortly, and Remus left to follow them, with the Weasley parents on his heels. The door slammed behind them, and Mrs. Black began to scream loudly. "I'm leaving," Harry told them brusquely, then went out into the hallway. Morrigan watched him leave but then ran after him. "Potter!" she called.

"What?" he snapped, turning around. He grabbed his coat from the rack beside him, slinging it on and looking expectantly at Morrigan.

"Hermione told me to tell you," she said uncertainly, "about the location of a certain object."

"Which is?" Harry asked impatiently.

"Hufflepuff cup," she told him. Harry's eyes lit up.

"Where?" he asked eagerly, stepping forward and placing his hands on Morrigan's shoulders.

"In Parselart, his castle," she told him. "The library."

"And you could find it if we went there?"

"Yes," Morrigan confirmed.

Harry shook her hand happily. "Good, good. You did a good job, Morrigan."

"What's it about?" she asked eagerly.

"I'll tell you some other time," he told her, then opened the door and waved good-bye as he walked out onto the sidewalk and Apparated.


	10. Chapter Ten

A/N: I have to say that I am SOOOO excited about this chapter

* * *

**Chapter Ten: A Fond Farewell to Number Twelve**

"So, what do you think about me joining the Order?" Morrigan asked one afternoon, about a week later. She plopped down in the armchair, and both Hermione and Draco looked up from their books.

"What prompted this?" Hermione inquired, squinting her eyes slightly.

Morrigan shrugged. "I think it would be the best way to prove myself. Besides, I can't just sit there while other people are risking their lives against the Dark Lord. It seems unfair that I should live safe and sound while others die."

"Well," Hermione began slowly, "the Order would have to be able to trust you, first. And you'd have to be able to guarantee this trust. How do you plan on going about that?"

"If I just tell the truth, they'll believe me," Morrigan said faithfully, her face the object of cheer. She seemed so bubbly and excited about this idea, it almost seemed cruel to give her a taste of reality. "I mean, it would be great to actually fight beside you and Harry Potter," Morrigan told Draco, who looked slightly amused.

"Oh yes?" he asked, a tiny grin playing on his face.

"Yup. I could be a great hero, you know. I've got it in me."

"Morrigan, are you all right?" Hermione asked. "For the past few days you've been moping around the house taciturn-like, and now you're as right as rain. You haven't been drinking coffee, have you?"

"No, well, yes, but that's not the point!" Morrigan sputtered. "I just want to be something, and do it on the right side for once," Morrigan explained pleadingly. Her eyes found Draco's, but she couldn't read his expression; it was totally indecipherable. "I can do it," she whispered to him.

"I know you can," he told her quietly. "Just convince Mad-Eye and Lupin of that and you'll be ready to join."

"How do I do that?" she asked. "Obviously it's not like the Dark Lord's initiation. But it has to be something difficult."

"Or something stupid," Draco said with a frown. "Morrigan, I'm not sure it's worth it to try."

"Let her do it," Hermione said with a gleam in her eye. "Morrigan will be able to use her own judgment if it's too difficult or if it's ridiculous. Besides, Lupin is level-headed. He'll be good about it."

"That's great and all," Draco growled, "but when are we to be seeing them, anyway?"

"Soon. We need new supplies in the near future, anyway. We've exhausted two months worth, and we're going to need some more food here in a week. I'll owl them this afternoon."

"What do I say?" Morrigan asked them, and Draco closed his book with a sigh.

"You're going to need to play on their sympathy a little. Explain why you joined the Death Eaters in the first place, what happened here, why you want to join, and cry a little, if you can."

"Gee, that's not manipulative at all," Hermione remarked sarcastically.

Draco smirked at her and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Anyway, that's all it takes?" Morrigan asked loudly.

"More or less," Draco said with a shrug. "They may ask to inspect your mind a little, so you'll have to let down your guard for Moody to check you out."

"All right."

"And don't be a bitch," Hermione added.

"Hey!" Morrigan protested. "I'm not that bad. Usually."

"Heh," Hermione grunted, then both Draco and Hermione opened their books and began to read again.

Dejectedly, Morrigan sought after another pursuit to while away her afternoon.

* * *

Mad-Eye and Lupin arrived right on time, three days later, at precisely noon. Morrigan and Hermione were sitting in the sitting room, Morrigan reading the _Prophet_, while Hermione was doing a crossword she had cut from the back. The two walked (or in Mad-Eye's case, limped) down the hall and into the sitting room, finding both girls comfortably situated.

"Granger, Flaherty," Moody growled in greeting.

Both stood. "The supplies?" Hermione asked.

"In the kitchen," Lupin told her. She nodded quietly, leaving the three alone to awkwardly situate themselves in her absence.

"Hermione told us you had something to discuss with us, Morrigan?" Lupin said politely.

Morrigan jumped softly at being thus addressed, then cleared her throat. "Yes, sir."

"Which is…?"

"I'd like to join the Order, sir."

"I see," he said quietly.

"You realize that your request is a bit difficult," Moody asked her, his eye zeroing in on hers.

"Yes. But I want to help. I know it sounds strange coming from me, and suspicious, but I swear I don't mean any harm. I truly want to help."

"But how can we tell that?" Moody asked her. "We don't have any idea what your intent is."

"I already thought of that, sir. Draco, er, Malfoy and I discussed this, and he thought it would be all right if I let you see, well, look at my thoughts."

Moody watched her piercingly. "No tricks?" he grunted, although neither of them thought he would believe her either way.

"No," Morrigan said, shaking her head.

"Very well then," Moody growled. "Lupin, come with me for a moment."

Both wizards exited the room briefly, and Morrigan sat down on the couch, preparing to make herself comfortable. She'd seen extremely nasty Occlumency sessions when the victim had been writhing on cold floors, unable to control their limbs as they attempted to keep certain memories private.

The two men entered the room, and Moody drew his wand. "Brace yourself, Flaherty. I'll give you a moment to prepare."

Morrigan closed her eyes, and then with a deep breath, concentrated very hard on dropping all the walls around her thoughts. Like all good Occlumens, Morrigan could perfectly envision and depict her mental walls, so when they came crashing down, she actually heard them. The more real the walls felt, the more effective they were. Hers caused her ears to shudder in alarm at the loudness of the slams, but finally, Morrigan opened her eyes and said calmly, "I'm ready, Mr. Moody."

Moody pointed his wand between her eyes and cried, "_Legilimens!_"

Morrigan was thrust into the strange feeling of watching her memories again through her own eyes, yet feeling strangely disconnected. Her mother, her step-father and she were at a zoo. John held her up as the giraffe leaned down over the fence, and she stuck her fingers in its nose, giggling loudly. Then she could once again feel the blows as he hit her again and again. She could remember what he was saying, even if she couldn't hear it: "You are corrupt, and you will be saved. I will save you, corrupt child." He repeated this rhythmically as he hit her again and again. She wasn't screaming. This was a later memory, after she had learned not to scream, as it would only make things far worse. Then Morrigan was at Dirving, and an older student was making fun of her, saying her parents hadn't wanted her. Then the man who had saved her from hell. His face seemed strangely kind, although he had been a very bad man, she knew. Voldemort tortured her, bringing her into his hateful order of murderers. Then she saw face after face of those she had murdered. She was forced to relive every death, every torture session. She knew she was screaming, but she didn't think she could stop. Worse, she didn't want to stop. Then she saw Draco, and the memory was of a time when she had hated him. Draco smirking at her, sneering at her, screaming at her with a livid face. Then he wasn't angry, simply understanding, and her feelings had felt conflicted. She had wanted to trust him, although she hadn't known why. Suddenly she was staring at him, and an alien feeling of trust and enamored affection consumed her—she didn't want Mad-Eye here, he wasn't welcome. She pushed Moody away from Draco and in the direction of Hermione. He didn't protest or struggle, but simply went to her memories of Hermione.

Hermione sobbing as she told her things, things that had upset Hermione. Even now Morrigan felt self-revulsion at having said such things to such a sweet, eager girl. She felt Moody recoil similarly, a part of his conscious sapped from her mind. It was back again, though, and he searched through the developing feelings of friendship and loyalty. Morrigan defending Hermione to Draco. Morrigan standing between Ginny and Hermione. Morrigan feeling terrible for having caused such a rift between the best friends. Moody went through her memories of the past month and a half, watching Christmas, seeing her tell the story of Conlai. He watched her read those Muggle books in fascination and growing understanding.

_That's enough, _Morrigan thought, and very slowly she shoved Moody from her mind. He had fully violated her thoughts, although she had allowed him to do so. As soon as Moody was gone, her mental blocks erected themselves with a shuddering boom. She opened her eyes and found herself laying upside down on the couch, flat on her back. Draco and Hermione were leaned over the back of the sofa, watching her worriedly. Morrigan's eyes connected with Draco's, and she saw deep approval there. She shivered, then stood up.

"Did I pass?" she asked hoarsely, having screamed quite a bit.

"Yes," Moody said shakily but assuredly. "You did, Morrigan."

Morrigan stared at him, but knew the reason he had used her first name. The familiarity with which he knew her now was probably as if he had grown up with her. She was more Morrigan to him than Flaherty.

"Will you let me in the Order?" she asked him eagerly.

"Oh yes," Moody muttered. "I think we can arrange that."

Lupin clapped his hands together. "Our replacement for Draco!" he said, looking at Morrigan expectantly, but she shook her head firmly.

"No, I won't go back there," she told him determinedly. "I left that life behind, and I can't imagine going back." She shuddered, as if to emphasize her point.

"We'll find someone else," Moody said in uncharacteristic kindness. "We'll find something else for you to do, Morrigan."

She nodded quietly. "Are you ready, Remus?" Alastor asked, and Remus nodded.

"See you kids soon. Take care." Then they left.

As the door shut behind them, Morrigan jumped up and down, shrieking wildly. "I passed! I'm cured! I'm cured!"

Hermione came around the couch to embrace her. Morrigan held her tight, then whispered in her ear, "Thanks, Hermione. You're the best friend I've ever had."

Hermione froze in their hug, unsure of what to say. Ginny was her best friend, and as trivial as having a "best" friend may seem, she knew it would crush Morrigan for her to say something about Ginny being her only best friend.

"Thank you, too," she whispered.

Morrigan pulled away, then walked shyly around the couch, hugging Draco, too, who felt stiff. But he softened, holding her just as tightly. Morrigan breathed in his scent, memorizing it. She would never be able to describe it, but she'd always remember it. Always always always…

"To the worm who became a butterfly," Hermione toasted, holding her butterbeer up; Morrigan and Draco met hers with their own.

* * *

"Morrigan," Hermione giggled drunkenly, "you're not supposed to participate in your own toast."

"I will if I damn well please," Morrigan laughed, then took a swig of her butterbeer. "And you are a terrible drinker, Hermione. I could have guessed it, but bloody hell, woman. I put three bottles near you and you were done! You drink like a house elf!"

"Hey, how many have you had?" Hermione demanded slowly.

"Five," Morrigan giggled.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm at six and I'm not even feeling a buzz."

"Well, that's because you're twice our size," Hermione retorted. "If I was your size, I might be able to do that, too."

"Morrigan's smaller than you, Hermione," Draco pointed out.

She looked at Morrigan with her head turned slightly to the side. "Mebbe a little," she admitted. "But not much."

"I'm taller," Morrigan added. "Hermione's built better, though."

"Hear hear," Hermione cheered, bumping glasses with Morrigan. "If you compliment my figure, I will buy you another drink, dear."

"Hermione, I don't believe you've ever drunk before," Morrigan said amusedly.

"No, no, never have. I mean, I've had a butterbeer here and there, but not this much. Never had reason to."

"Never?" Draco asked, astounded.

"Nope. The war started at the end of our fifth year right?"

"No, our fourth," Draco said with a frown. She was apparently a dumb drunk.

"Right," she affirmed. "That's much too young to begin drinking."

"Actually," Morrigan said, standing, "_nineteen_ is much to young to be drinking how much we are. It's time for you to go to bed or you'll be asking for a giant hangover."

"All right," Hermione laughed, standing with wobbly legs. Morrigan helped her up the stairs, leaving Draco to laugh at their antics.

Morrigan waited until Hermione dressed into her pajamas, then tucked her into the bed, feeling rather like a mother. She was about to leave when Hermione called, "Morrigan, do you want to live with me?"

Morrigan turned and looked at her. "I already do, Hermione."

"No, no, outside of Grimmauld. I have a flat, you know."

"Oh really?" Morrigan asked, her voice amused.

"I'm serious. You can't just hang out at Grimmauld all the time. You have to get out. And if you just want to live at my place with me for awhile, you're more than welcome."

"Are you sure now's the best time to be offering this to me?"

"Eh, I've been thinking about it for awhile. And I'm not that drunk. Just rather giggly."

"Oh."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, are you going to take me up on my offer?"

"Sure," Morrigan said simply. "If you really mean that in the morning."

"Oh I will," Hermione told her assuredly. "I will."

Hermione was quite all right the next morning. She said her head tweaked a little, but otherwise she was fine. She did remember the conversation, and didn't recant the offer. So, after a thorough discussion, they both decided to approach Draco on the matter.

They both went to breakfast, where Draco was already waiting. "It's your job to do breakfast," he reminded Morrigan without looking up from the paper and his coffee.

"Draco, we're moving out," Morrigan told him abruptly, and he looked up sharply.

"Where are you going?" he asked them.

"I'm going to stay with Hermione at her flat in London."

"You're quite sure that's safe?" Draco inquired shrewdly.

"No, we're not," Hermione said, "but my life never was safe in this world."

"True," Draco sighed. "All right. I suppose today's as good a day as any to clean the house up."

Morrigan made breakfast, which they ate silently. Afterwards they began to pick candles and wax remnants from various corners. Draco banished the tree with a pop and left the decorations in a box to be put in the attic. Morrigan was disappointed to see all the decorations gone. Now halfway through January, the removal of the greens was long overdue. But Morrigan had enjoyed them, so they had remained mostly up.

With the last decoration safely stored in the attic, the three sat down on the couch, savoring the last afternoon as a trio. Hermione mused at the unlikely combination of the three, but found that they all fit each other extremely well—almost as well as she, Ron, and Harry fit. For some reason, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had to talk to Draco, although she had nothing specific in mind when she thought of this. She had said everything that needed to be said to Draco a long time ago. Perhaps he needed to say something to her?

She spent the rest of the day feeling this way, going through her working and playtime thinking of this. After dinner, Morrigan retired early, which was strangely fortunate. Hermione was given the chance to talk to Draco. Both found their way into the sitting room where they spent a good fifteen minutes in silence, staring into the fire. Hermione eventually said, "It's all going to change again."

"I know," Draco replied quietly.

"I don't want it to change, Draco."

"I know you don't, Hermione." He turned to look at her. The looks on their faces must have been of identical anxiety. Something passed between them.

"Please visit us," Hermione pleaded. "We're going to miss you more than we could possibly articulate."

"I promise I will." There were a few moments of silence, neither of them speaking what was truly on their minds.

"What happened here?" Hermione asked him. "We set out to change Morrigan, and we ended up changing ourselves."

"Did we really change?" Draco asked, his brow furrowed.

"We couldn't stand each other at the beginning of this," she reminded him.

"Good point."

"It's just that…maybe this is a bit forward, but it seems that we've gone in a direction that really can't be changed. We might not have intended it to end up like this, but it did. Unless I'm very wrong, there are certain…affections between us that we can't just ignore."

"And we can't exactly establish them," Draco told her carefully. "This is tricky ground."

"Very tricky," Hermione agreed disappointedly. She had almost hoped he would take her in his arms and offer to take her away.

"Maybe this will help," he said, then leaned across towards her.

This time, Hermione had different thoughts in her mind. First, that she was cheating on her boyfriend twice, despite her indignant protests that Ron didn't trust her when she was, in fact, trustworthy. The second was that Draco Malfoy kissed _her_. And the third was that she had very much wanted him to do it, despite the consequences.

* * *

Morrigan, Hermione, and Draco were packed and ready the next morning, preparing to say their good-byes. Hermione left the sitting room so that Morrigan and Draco could be left alone. Hermione knew they had a different sort of relationship, and she didn't want to interfere with it at all.

Morrigan and Draco faced each other, staring each other down. Draco didn't know what Morrigan was thinking, nor she him. Morrigan knew what she was thinking: _Draco Malfoy, will I ever see you again_? And he was thinking, _Morrigan, why are you making me feel so guilt-ridden as you stare at me with those enormous eyes of yours?_

"I suppose this is good-bye, then," Morrigan began lamely.

"Yes," Draco said, his response just as lame, if not lamer.

"I don't really want to do this," Morrigan said. "I've never done this before. It seems like one of those things that should be profoundly easy. But with the war, I don't know…"

"We'll see each other," Draco said firmly.

"Okay," Morrigan whispered, and without warning she pressed herself forward into his arms. He stiffened again at the contact, then Morrigan began to fit more smoothly in his arms. She looked up at him, then planted a simple but very sweet kiss on his lips.

He pulled back in surprise, but then to his increasing shock, he himself leaned forward and kissed her, this kiss deeper. Morrigan was a beginner at this, with less expertise than Hermione or himself. But with her innocence came the sincerity. Kissing wasn't a habit, a skill, a second nature. It was something she put effort into. He appreciated it, despite the awkwardness. It took him back to his own first kiss, with whom he couldn't remember, but it had still been rather nice.

They pulled apart, and Morrigan looked rather surprised. "Sorry," she whispered, her eyes searching his face.

"I'm not," he told her, grinning down at her.

Her eyes widened slightly then she smiled. "Well, that was something new. Shall we do it again some time?" she asked, laughing slightly.

"Sure," he returned.

They pulled apart, just as Hermione entered the room. "Almost time to go," Hermione told Morrigan, pointing to the fireplace. "Draco has something for you."

Morrigan looked expectantly at Draco, who fished in his robes to pull something out—a very long, wooden something.

"My wand!" Morrigan exclaimed happily, grabbing it.

She felt the familiar warm feeling of her wand. It was eleven and half inches, yew, with whiskers from a silkie, found off the coast of Ireland. No other wand would ever feel quite so comfortable in her hands as this.

She pointed her wand at her hand and muttered something unintelligible. A ball of flame ignited in her hands, and she threw it up, catching it smoothly. She finished the spell, the flames evaporating.

With a grin, she hugged Draco one more time. "Please come visit us," she requested of him.

"I will," he promised.

"Bye, Draco," both girls called, then Hermione walked down the hallway.

With one last glance at Draco, Morrigan followed.

It seemed that they would be out of Draco's life for a while.


	11. Chapter Eleven

A/N: Last chapter wasn't nearly as fun as I thought it would be

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Settling Into a Strange Environment—Girl Town**

Morrigan had only been to Diagon Alley once, but she managed to Apparate there with no problem. "It's only three blocks from here," Hermione explained. "We can walk from here."

They exited the Leaky Cauldron, and hurried to Hermione's apartment though the lovely London weather—a freezing drizzle that settled in their bones and chilled them unpleasantly. When they finally entered the apartment building, their bags had been soaked. They elevated to the fourth floor, then walked all the way to the end where Hermione opened the door and they finally entered her flat.

The walls were a nice cream color, while the carpet was white. She had furnished with wood and brown furniture. The kitchen led into the sitting room, where Hermione had a television and tape player. Morrigan stared at it for a few minutes, then returned to examining the rest of the apartment. The fireplace had pictures of friends and family on the mantle, each of them grinning up at the viewer cheekily and waving. The kitchen peninsula was miles high in envelopes and papers, although it seemed to be extremely organized. Each appliance seemed brand new and new tech. Hermione led the way to her bedroom, which had previously been guest quarters.

"Feel free to decorate however."

"With what?" Morrigan asked wryly.

"Good point," Hermione replied. "Well, if you ever need to put something on the walls, you may."

"Okay, thanks."

"What do you want for lunch?" Hermione asked, leading her out of the bedroom.

"Can I dry off first?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Hermione pointed a wand at Morrigan, and instantly she felt warm and dry.

"Thanks."

"No problem. _Now _what would you like for luncheon?"

"What's available?"

Hermione searched through the cupboards, frowning. She opened the refrigerator, but found nothing there, either. "Hmph. _Nothing_ is available. I suppose we could go shopping."

"Sounds fine," Morrigan said with a shrug. "But could we Apparate? I'm not particularly fond of the weather. It made me feel like a drowning cat." She made a face.

"Yes, yes, of course. Do you need anything in Diagon Alley?"

"Well, I left quite a bit back at Parselart, clothing and such. But since you gave me back my money, I have my key now, so I can extract some from my safe."

"Sounds good. I need to restock on Potion supplies, anyway. And I do love shopping." Hermione's eyes took on a frightening gleam.

"I'm sure you do," Morrigan said, alarmed. "Just restrain yourself, all right?"

Hermione laughed, then walked to the bathroom where she began to mess with her hair. "What are you doing? Aren't we going to go?" Morrigan asked, following her.

"Morrigan, you may be all right going into public looking like you just rolled out of bed, but I'm not. I barely even brushed my hair this morning. I'm going to put it up."

Morrigan leaned against the doorframe and watched her. Hermione meticulously brushed her locks and then pulled her hair back into a high ponytail. She added earrings, eyeliner, and mascara. The change in her face was rather strange, which Morrigan commented on. "You look weird."

Hermione looked at her in horror. "Does it look that bad?"

"No, it's just strange seeing you with that stuff on your face. You don't need it, you know."

Hermione smiled benignly. "That's sweet of you, but I feel more confident with my makeup on."

"Why?" Morrigan asked disdainfully.

"I know exactly how I look, and I have control over how I look. It's easier to change your appearance when there are variables. Otherwise I'd always look the same."

"Why do you care, though? I mean, if other people think your face always looks the same, why does it matter? Why should their opinion matter to you? If you're happy with your appearance, you shouldn't care what other people think."

"That's very easy to say, but it's much harder to live. The bottom line is that I feel more comfortable with this control over how I look. I don't worry about it as much."

Morrigan shrugged and turned to leave. "Wait, aren't you going to…?" Hermione trailed off.

"Didn't our conversation just indicate what I think of messing with my appearance?" Morrigan said scornfully.

"Yes, but it's still fun. And I bet you'd look awfully nice with eyeliner on."

"No," Morrigan told her flatly. "You're not putting that crap on my face."

"Please?" Hermione begged.

"Absolutely not. I don't need it. People have commented on how pretty I look before. It _was_ the Dark Lord. But still, I don't need a crutch to feel confident. With my wand at my side, people have never questioned me before."

"That was when you'd curse them if they disagreed with you," Hermione pointed out.

"So?"

"You're not going to do that now, though."

"Well, there's a war going on right now. People can't be sure. Besides, some of them might recognize me."

"All the more reason to fix your appearance," Hermione told her.

Morrigan snorted. "If they attack me, I _will _curse them into oblivion. Right or wrong, I will defend myself. And I'm not afraid of people seeing my face. I never wore the Mask for a reason. I won't wear one now."

That was the end of it.

After Hermione had fully prepared herself to go, they Apparated to Diagon Alley. Morrigan's key sat in her pocket. They first went to Gringotts, which was an experience within itself. Morrigan read the doors with amusement. "_For those that take but do not earn_. Thief, indeed." Hermione rolled her eyes.

Morrigan had only once encountered goblins, and that hadn't been very pleasant. The beasts had tried to push her down a well for making fun of their noses. Mind, she had deserved it, but the experience had been rather unforgettable.

Hermione pushed Morrigan toward the teller desk, where she handed her key to a goblin and said, "Vault 347, please."

The goblin leered at her. "Turnrook will assist you. Turnrook!" Another goblin, no doubt Turnrook, bowed deeply to the teller and went around the counter.

"This way," he called, and leapt nimbly into a cart.

"We're expected to get into that?" Morrigan asked, alarmed.

"Yes, it's one of the perks of a wizard's bank," Hermione told her sarcastically.

Morrigan gulped and followed the goblin into the cart. Hermione got in last, clutching her moneybag to her body. The cart started slowly, but soon was careening at breakneck speeds down the old track that led down into the ground. They stopped suddenly and Morrigan felt like she was going to fly onto the track, but managed to seize the rail on time to bring herself to a stop. "Vault 347," Turnrook called, climbing out. He held out his hand and Morrigan placed her key into his waiting hand, and then clambered out shakily herself.

The goblin stuck the key in its hole, and then turned the lock. The vault door swung open heavily, and the light from the torches illuminated the contents of the vault. To one side laid a large pile of gold and silver, and to the other sat every bauble and gift the Dark Lord had ever given her, aside from books. She looked down disgustedly at these and began picking them up with an unconcealed sneer. She put each of them in her bag, which was bulging from the various objects. Hermione stared at the bag and Morrigan's lip curled slightly. "Blood money," she growled in a low tone. "I'm selling it all."

"To _whom_?" Hermione hissed. "No one would buy all these."

"Borgin and Burkes will," Morrigan told her. "We're going to stop in Knockturn Alley."

"Absolutely not!" Hermione snapped. "I don't belong there."

"No one will touch you," Morrigan assured her. "Not with me around. Besides, people don't murder you in the middle of street."

Hermione muttered darkly, folding her arms over her chest.

At the top of the track, they got out and thanked their guide, then exited the bank. Morrigan led the way determinedly to the side alley connecting the two major alleys, then down the street of Knockturn Alley.

She entered Borgin and Burkes, Hermione behind her. Morrigan rang the bell smartly and waited for the greasy salesman, Borgin, to come out of his office. He first laid eyes upon Hermione and his face of gracious anticipation became that of sneering distaste.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"I'm selling," Morrigan told him coolly, and Hermione noticed how she behaved around Borgin. She was haughty and disconnected, her eyes coldly appraising, and her manner arrogant. If Hermione had been Borgin, she would have immediately known that Morrigan meant business.

But Borgin remembered Hermione from a previous encounter and this impression shone darkly on Morrigan. However, the girl acted as calm and collected as Hermione had ever seen her. _This must have been how she handled her fellow Death Eaters_, Hermione marveled. It was no wonder why she she'd had a formidable reputation.

"And what, pray tell, would that be?" Borgin snapped.

Morrigan pulled her bag out, and opened it, pulling out first a large ruby necklace with bone fingers clutching the jewel from the chain. Borgin's eyes widened slightly.

"This is an exquisite piece, and unless I am quite mistaken, was once part of my collection," he breathed, glancing up at Morrigan.

"Yes, the Dark Lord gifted this upon myself," she told him with a smirk. "Blood money."

Borgin's face drained of the little color it had previously displayed.

"Your discretion is, of course, requested."

"Of course, Madame. How much?"

"Seventy galleons," she said. "That's a low price."

"Yes, thank you, Madame." He pulled out a box, which was filled to the bursting with galleons. He pulled out three other identical boxes, tall and wide. He pointed his wand at the open box and the allotted Galleons flew out to place themselves in a stack in front of her.

The next item was a ring of emerald, which Morrigan would not touch directly, instead picking it up by the chain. "The Ring of Beauty," she told him.

"Ah yes! Renders the wearer beautiful in whatever way the viewer finds most appealing. You do not wish to keep it, Madame?"

"Do I look as if I need such a ring?" Morrigan asked coldly. Hermione felt a shiver go up her spine. Morrigan was exceptionally good at this, which was rather scary.

"No, no, of course not."

"Good. I also have a cursed hairbrush, a talking mirror, and a poisoned lipstick," she added, putting each jeweled piece onto the corner with little ceremony.

"Poisoned lipstick…?" Borgin asked.

"It's not toxic to the wearer. Kills whatever or whoever the wearer kisses."

"Ah, I see."

Morrigan pulled piece after piece out of the sack until finally she had sold every piece to a very enthused Borgin. When they finally left, he bowed them out of the shop, smiling greasily and asking Morrigan to come back soon.

As they left, Morrigan handed Hermione two handfuls of Galleons wordlessly, but Hermione tried to shove the Galleons back, protesting.

"I don't want it," Morrigan said, shaking her head. "It's blood money. You may not have noticed this, but Borgin didn't even blink at every price I set—because I set every one way lower than it should have been. I wanted to get rid of it. Borgin is, of course, used to this and accepts nearly every price given him."

"You didn't want to get your money's worth?" Hermione asked with a frown. "It may be a terrible source of money, but it still was yours."

Morrigan stopped and looked at Hermione, her eyes hard. "Hermione, at the risk of sounding a bit like an insolent student, I really don't like the idea of keeping that money around as a reminder of why I have it. You are holding the pain of good people in your hands. Don't hesitate to get rid of it. I'm giving it to you because you've given me what no other person could, but I was given this money for killing innocent people. It is far better that you use it for the reason I gave it to you than why I was given it. Besides, I really don't want to walk around with five hundred galleons."

Hermione looked down at the bulging bag. "That's enchanted, isn't it? If there were truly five-hundred Galleons in there, you'd be holding something far bigger."

"Yes, it's a bottomless bag," Morrigan told her. "It's a lot easier when you're trying to carry a large sum of money, which I used to do when I didn't withdraw my own money." They resumed walking, and soon found themselves back on the street. It wasn't crowded, as most didn't like going out during the War. Hermione led the way to the Apothecary first. She and Morrigan browsed the ingredients, and finally they picked what they needed and wanted. Morrigan grabbed an order from a stack by the door as they walked out. "In case I need any more."

They headed across the street to Flourish and Blotts, where they split up. Hermione went searching for an updated book of Emeric Switch's Advanced Transfiguration, while Morrigan drifted into the Dark Arts section. She found a book of rather amusing prank hexes, while another was on how to effectively defend oneself in difficult times such as these. They recommended immediate Apparition if one could, and there was an entire section on Apparating, at which point Morrigan closed the book with an impatient snap and put it back. She found another that discussed magic sentient creatures, ranging from elves to vampires. It belonged to a three-volume set, which Morrigan rather liked. The author obviously knew what he was talking about, and the information on vampires was mostly accurate. Morrigan had done an independent inquiry for her graduating year at Dirving, which was required of students that completed the courses in certain areas before graduation. Morrigan had done inquiries for every class her last year, as she'd studied with teachers over the summers. She'd lived at Dirving, since she'd had nowhere to go.

Morrigan made up her mind to buy the set and pulled them off the shelf, holding them under her arm. She browsed more, finding a book of counter-curses and hexes that she liked, and another devoted to human transfiguration for defense. She lugged her finds to the front desk where a cute younger wizard was checking the books for customers. When he finally came to Morrigan, she placed every book on the counter, the books slamming heavily. He smiled at the selections. "Studying up?"

She didn't smile back. "It's a subject of interest," she told him with a shrug.

The smile faded and he checked the books for problems or torn pages. Finally he gave her the price and she handed him the money. He bagged the books then gave them to her. "Have a nice day," she muttered, and joined Hermione at the door.

"I was watching," Hermione said with a grin. "Terrorizing the poor clerk?"

"Well, he made me feel stupid," Morrigan whined jokingly. "I _hate _that."

Hermione laughed then led them on down the street toward Madame Maulkin's. Morrigan stopped in front of the brooms, and Hermione turned around to see what she was looking at. Morrigan went into Quality Quidditch Supplies to get a better look at the Firebolt in the window. She couldn't take her eyes off of it, and it was mightily tempting to buy it. She did, after all, have more leisure time now, and it would be nice to have a racing broom. She couldn't play Quidditch, of course, but it wouldn't be terrible to buy one. She had her heart set on the Firebolt. She walked up to the attendant and asked, "How much is the Firebolt?"

"One hundred and twenty-five Galleons," he told her promptly. "Sale for brooms has gone down since the beginning of the war. Used to be a lot more expensive."

"I'll take it," Morrigan told him. He nodded, went to the window, and reverently picked the broom off the stand. Morrigan pulled all 125 Galleons out of her purse and then piled them on the counter. The attendant counted them, and with a smile, said, "You're ready to go. Would you like me to wrap it up for you?"

"Sure," Morrigan told him. "Why tempt thieves?" He grinned and took the Firebolt from her hands.

"Accio!" he called, and the paper flew onto the counter where he wrapped and tied it. Morrigan thanked him and left. Hermione was waiting, once again at the door, her lips pursed.

"Why on earth did you feel the need to get that dreadful thing?" she asked.

"I have time to ride it now. Might as well."

"Hmph." Hermione led her into Madame Maulkin's. The witch was busy with another customer—a mother and her very young son. He was currently trying to poke Madame Maulkin back with her own pins, but his mother slapped his hand, yelling, "No, Ramón! Sorry, Madame Maulkin…" Hermione grinned and began browsing the clothing.

Morrigan found a nice set of robes that were practical but attractive, and she set her heart upon that design. Hermione called her to come look at a set that she herself liked. They were green with red hems. Morrigan cocked her head to the side. "I think it would clash with your boyfriend's hair," she teased.

Hermione shoved her and said, "I'm buying them."

Morrigan put her hands up. "Fine, fine, it's your choice."

"I mean I want to buy them for that reason. I get sick of hearing people tell me we look cute together."

Morrigan began to laugh. "What's so funny?" Hermione asked with a frown.

"Nothing," Morrigan told her, straightening her face with great effort. "Just the implications…"

"Oh shut up," Hermione snapped, shoving her again.

Madame Maulkin approached them, while the mother and her son walked out onto the empty street. "Is there anything I can do for you, dears?"

"Yes," both said simultaneously, then Hermione went ahead. "I'd like to buy these—the Holly set?"

"Of course," Madame Maulkin told her with a smile. "I just hope you're easier to please than that dreadful little boy…." She led Hermione to the fitting station where Hermione stood on the stool and allowed herself to be measured while Madame Maulkin picked out the fabrics. "I'll be right with you, dear," the witch told Morrigan briskly, who smiled back at her and nodded quietly.

Morrigan browsed the robes more, finding a pair of ridiculous bright orange ones that were rather tempting for the silliness, but she knew that she wouldn't ever wear them, so discarded the idea. She was looking over a pair of cream ones when Madame Maulkin finished and called for her.

"Which were you wanting?" Madame Maulkin asked Morrigan. The girl pointed at the pair she wanted and the witch gestured to stand on the stool.

Morrigan did as she was told, then stood very still as the tape measure took her measurements. Madame Maulkin brought the robes over and began to fix them to her measurements. Twenty minutes later, they were leaving with their new robes.

"Is there anything else?" Hermione asked. "We've got books, potion supplies, robes…Oh!" She hit herself on the forehead with her free hand. "I almost forgot the groceries!"

"Is there a grocery store here?" Morrigan asked. "It doesn't seem grocery-store-esque."

"No, there's one beside the Leaky Cauldron, though. I figured we would just stop there on our way home."

"Hermione, we are going to look ridiculous," Morrigan said. "How are we going to carry everything? And how on earth are we going to Apparate out of there with Muggles around?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I didn't think of that."

"Of course not," Morrigan said, rolling her eyes. "We'll eat first, then we'll grocery shop. My treat."

Hermione beamed at her. "I accept."

The two friends moved on to a coffee shop of Hermione's pick, called "Donna's Coffee Shop." Donna was a tall, thin witch who was very fond of the color yellow. The seats were yellow, the walls were yellow, the uniforms on the waitresses were yellow, the menu was yellow (and barely intelligible), and the décor was all yellow themed. Morrigan was almost blinded when she opened the door, and she squinted against the bright lemony light. "I guess I'll bring sunglasses next time," she told Hermione. Amusingly, a couple in the corner _was_ wearing sunglasses.

Hermione sat in a corner booth, placing her shopping bags beside her. Morrigan sat across from her. She looked down at the menu and narrowed her eyes at the lettering. "I can't even read that!" she muttered.

Hermione sighed and said, "They have sandwiches, coffee, and tea. Take your pick."

"Black tea?" Morrigan asked.

"Of course," Hermione told her. "Traditional, lemon, or flavored."

"Which flavors?"

"Berries."

Donna approached their table and said, clearing her throat, "Hello, I'm Donna, your hostess. What can I get you ladies today?"

Morrigan racked her brains for a sandwich and blurted, "A Reuben, on wheat."

"And what can I get you to drink?"

"Black tea, please. A spot of milk and two lumps of sugar."

"And you?" Donna turned to look at Hermione, her pen pressed on her notepad.

"A butterbeer and a corned beef sandwich. Rye bread, please."

"Thanks, ladies. I'll have your orders in about five minutes."

Morrigan leaned back as she left. "Well. This has certainly been fun. Do you do this often?"

"No," Hermione told her, shaking her head. "Not too often. Usually only when I need something."

"Or if you have an excess of money," Morrigan added with a grin.

"Yes, that, too. Sometimes I come with Ginny or Ron. Occasionally Harry. I don't really have a whole lot of time to just do this on whim. It's usually planned."

"Oh. What do you usually do, then?"

"Sometimes I take odd jobs at the Ministry. I was thinking about training as an Auror, but I rather enjoy my freedom, and it would mean keeping one job a secret from the other. I'm not too sure I like the idea of that."

"Why _isn't _the Order public now?" Morrigan asked.

"Too penetrable. And if the Ministry knew, they'd try to control it. Rufus Scrimgeour has tried interfering in Order affairs before, even when he hadn't a clue of its existence. It's safer to just keep it a secret. Many of the Order consider the Order the thing that keeps the Ministry running. Kingsley runs the Auror department and takes intelligent reports to the Aurors from the Order. Arthur Weasley's new promotion gave him full access to the Department of Ministries, so he can catalogue new finds on Voldemort's power, and even help Harry access some of the information. We're more powerful than Voldemort can guess and we're right under the Ministry's nose."

"What does Voldemort know about the Order? I mean, fully?"

"He knew what it was called, and that Dumbledore started it. He doesn't know who the members are, doesn't know where headquarters are, and hasn't a clue what we're up to, although he might think he does. We pick our members so well it's nearly impossible for him to penetrate it. After the last war we have to be especially careful."

"The Potter slip," Morrigan said with a nod.

"Yes, the Potter betrayal," Hermione agreed.

"How do you usually get members?"

"They're recommended and slowly brought into the group. Usually only intimate acquaintances are allowed in. If we need someone, we usually have a look-see into their thoughts then take them based on what we see."

"And who usually does this?"

"Moody. He's the only Legilemens. I _think _Draco is competent, but they don't trust him enough, and no matter how good he is, Moody's better."

"Makes sense," Morrigan said with a shrug.

"I suppose. It's better than Veritaserum." Hermione shuddered.

Frowning, Morrigan asked, "What do you have against Veritaserum? It gets the job done."

"In high amounts, it's extremely toxic," Hermione told her. "I've seen what it can do to a person, and it isn't pleasant."

"And what's that?"

"Their vital organs begin to shut down one by one. The brain tries to prevent its owner from revealing more secrets, so it shuts down the body for that person. If the brain isn't stopped on time, the body will die."

"That must be awful to watch," Morrigan commented carefully.

"It is."

They waited silently for their food to come. Donna brought it out on a tray and placed it all on the table. "Enjoy your lunch, ladies."

"Thank you," Hermione told her with a smile.

Morrigan pulled the Reuben towards her and took a sip of the tea. It burnt her tongue and she choked slightly. "Ouch," she said, and ran her tongue across the top of her mouth.

"It's hot," Hermione told her.

"Gee, thanks for the warning, Hermione," Morrigan growled playfully.

They talked briefly about Hermione's jobs at the Ministry, eating their sandwiches slowly. They paid the bill and left, lugging their bags behind them. They Apparated to Hermione's, dropping their purchases off. The rain had ceased and Hermione suggested they walk. Morrigan paused at the door. "Shouldn't we perhaps take off our robes?"

"Oh, yeah." Both took off their robes, revealing their clothing underneath. While Hermione had chosen a sweater and jeans, Morrigan was wearing black slacks and a long-sleeved t-shirt. She left to grab a hooded sweatshirt to keep her a bit warmer.

"How are we paying?" she asked upon return.

"With Muggle currency. I have money."

"Oh."

When they entered the grocery store, Morrigan felt rather uncomfortable. She hadn't been around a whole lot of Muggles for quite a long time, and any interaction had ultimately resulted in death—not her own. Hermione browsed the shelves with Morrigan trailing behind, feeling awkward and useless. "Is there anything I can get?" Morrigan muttered.

Hermione looked up at her and squinted thoughtfully. "Eggs and cheese."

"Milk?" Morrigan asked.

"Yes, that too."

Morrigan left the fruit aisle and wandered toward the refrigerated area. She found the whole milk easily, although she wasn't sure what sort of cheese Hermione had in mind. Swiss? Cheddar? Mozzarella? Morrigan decided upon all three. She grabbed a carton of eggs and traveled back to the fruits. Hermione was leaning over bananas when Morrigan sidled up beside her. "I couldn't figure out which kind of cheese you wanted, so just brought all three," Morrigan told Hermione.

Hermione looked up and smiled. "All three will do."

"Anything else?"

"Go to the deli and see if they have my cold cuts ready. Ask for Kelsey Smith's."

"That's not your name, though."

"The Order doesn't want me to give out my real name to the Muggles for security reasons."

"Well, if the Dark Lord asks these specific Muggles about you, I'd assume he would already know you live less than a mile away."

"Just go get it!" Hermione fussed, and Morrigan, shaking her head and muttering, tromped off to the deli.

The woman in charge looked up at her when she came to a stop at the counter. "Wot do yeh wont?" she barked in a strong accent.

"The cold cuts for Her—uh, Kelsey Smith."

"You ain't Kelsey Smith."

"I'm her roommate," Morrigan said shakily.

"Eh, foin." She barked out orders to an underling to bring out Kelsey Smith's cold cuts. The woman nodded her head quickly and scurried to do her bidding.

The woman in charge turned back and looked Morrigan up and down. "It'll be just a momen'."

"Thanks," Morrigan said quietly, averting her eyes while she waited.

"Here." The woman handed the packaged meat over and Morrigan took it in both hands.

"Have a nice day," Morrigan said quietly and the woman grunted.

Morrigan walked back to Hermione. "Ready?" Hermione asked. "I've got all I think we need."

She pushed the cart forward and Morrigan followed her to the checkout. The youth on duty looked younger than both. He had rather bad acne, a bulbous nose, and watery eyes. He grinned at Hermione in such a manner that Morrigan almost laughed out loud.

"How are you today, Kelsey?" he asked Hermione who smiled genuinely.

"I'm good, Davy. And yourself?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Are you sure you don't want to go out sometime?"

Hermione laughed. "The boyfriend is still around, Davy."

He looked disappointed. "All right, if you insist. Who's your friend?"

"This is my roommate, Morrigan," Hermione introduced.

Morrigan smiled a tiny smile. "Hello," she said. "Davy."

"Shy?" he asked, squinting at Morrigan, who flushed.

"Sort of," Hermione said, glancing at Morrigan. She thumbed through her pocketbook, counting out her money in pounds. She handed it to Davy who counted the change and gave it back to her with little ceremony.

"Have a nice day," he told them with a leery smile. Relieved, Morrigan helped pick up the bags and carry them out of the store.

"So you're a regular," Morrigan affirmed rather than asked when they exited the store.

"Yes, it's so close it's easier to come biweekly than to stock up."

"Well, either we're going to change that or you'll shop alone," Morrigan warned. "Don't forget there are two of us living together. We'll also need to come up with a payment plan. I'll pay half of everything, but I'm only going to be able to pay in wizard currency so you'll have to foot the Muggle parts of the bills. I'll reimburse you, of course, but I won't be able to do so in Muggle cash."

"Sounds good to me," Hermione agreed.

They climbed the stairs of the flat, feeling rather than seeing the eight landings.

Inside, they put away the groceries and settled down into the sitting room where Hermione turned on the T.V. Old reruns of _Monty Python's Flying Circus _were on, and Morrigan watched with fascination. She barely remembered television from her youth. John Miller had, of course, had one, so she used to watch it, but she couldn't remember what she'd viewed, and it seemed like it had been hundreds of years ago. As she watched, she wondered vaguely if it might have been hundreds of years ago, indeed.

In the course of a week and a half, Morrigan and Hermione became quite used to their coexistence. They interchanged meals every day. The same person that had lunch made supper, since lunch was easier to make. Whoever didn't cook cleaned up. No wandwork was required, besides putting the dishes in the dishwasher, for washing the dishes. They lived quite peaceably with each other. Morrigan's room stayed unadorned, although it was comfortable. Hermione had at one point set a sofa in that room, since she'd nowhere to put it. The bed was against the wall in the middle of the room, and Hermione's bookcase was in that room as well. Morrigan put her name inside her own books but put them in the bookcase for the time being.

Her coverlet was dark blue, as was the dust ruffle. Hermione, apparently, liked blue décor before she decided that white looked better. Morrigan's room became something that her Parselart one had never been—her own. She'd never felt quite at home like she did here, and she was surprised at the difference the feeling made. She rested easier, had an easier time falling asleep, and had good dreams. She never could remember what those dreams were of when she woke up, but she always had the distinct feeling that she had wanted that dream to keep going.

After hearing that Hermione was living back in her own apartment, Ginny and Ron decided to make a call one afternoon, walking from Diagon Alley to Hermione's. Morrigan was sitting cross-legged on the floor in shorts, socks, and a t-shirt, her hair back in a ponytail, creating a pyramid out of Exploding Snap cards. Someone knocked on the door and her four-level pyramid exploded with a bang. Scowling, Morrigan stood and went to the door. She swung it open and instantly regretted having opened it herself.

The two youngest Weasleys were staring at her in shock while she stared back. She flushed and raised a single eyebrow. "Can I help you, or did you already get lost?"

"Wouldn't that mean you would help us if we were lost?" Ron asked, squinting stupidly.

"She was being a bitch, Ron," Ginny snapped at her brother. "And no," she said to Morrigan. "We're here to see Hermione. If, that is, she still lives here and this apartment hasn't been entirely taken over by scum."

"Well, if you step on the premises it will have," Morrigan retorted breezily.

"Funny. Is Hermione here?"

"Yes," Hermione said, coming from behind Morrigan and giving her a stern look. "It's good you're being social with my new roommate," Hermione noted nastily to Ginny and her brother. "You've gotten off on such a lovely start. Why don't we make it more fun? Do you want poleaxes?" She scowled spitefully at Ginny and Morrigan.

Both looked ashamed and Morrigan backed away into the flat. Ginny and Ron entered, pulling at their cloaks and shrugging them onto an armchair. "There's a coat rack for that," Morrigan snapped, bending to pick up her cards.

Ron meekly picked the cloaks up and hung them on the coat rack, and Morrigan felt a twinge of regret for being nasty to Ron. He'd never really said anything bad to her or about her.

Of course, her regret was instantly gone when she heard him whisper to Hermione, "What are you _doing _Hermione? Why'd you let that _thing_ stay with you? She'll murder you in your bed!"

Morrigan straightened and glared at him foully, causing him to take a step back. "See!" he said loudly.

"I don't have a problem with Hermione," she told him. "It's just jerks like you and your sister I can't abide."

"Then go somewhere else," Ginny snarled.

"I was here first. This is _my _home. You're only here on the faint chance I don't blast you out the door."

"I thought you were changed," Ginny said coolly.

"I have no moral qualms against cursing you if you're a pain in the ass," Morrigan snorted. "Which you are, so don't tempt me."

"Oh dear, I'm so scared," Ginny returned sarcastically.

"Remember what I did to you last time you were on the other side of my wand," Morrigan hissed murderously. "You're only alive because I was ordered to leave you alive."

"And you think she's reformed?" Ginny said, turning back to Hermione coolly. "Gee, Hermione, your judgment is dead on."

"Ginny, despite Morrigan's…brutal phrasing, I'm going to have to remind you that you are insulting her in her own home. She might be a bit defensive," Hermione sighed. "And Morrigan, try to relax. _No one _is going to be cursing each other here."

Morrigan _harrumph_ed and stalked into her room, slamming the door angrily.

In the absence of Morrigan, Ginny began to attack Hermione. "What the hell are you playing at, Hermione? She's a killer. I don't know why you think she's okay, but your reasoning can't be worth shite because she's exactly the same. Did you see how she acted? Is that not indicative of her past nature?"

Morrigan threw herself on the bed, listening to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny go at it. She stared at the ceiling.

"Ginny, you provoked her! Besides, Moody trusts her, and so I trust her."

"Why the hell would Moody trust her?" Ron asked curiously.

"He used the Legilimency test to see whether she could join the Order."

"Malfoy said she's a great Occlumens! So what? She let him see whatever would make her look good. That's the only way she could have possibly passed."

"That's not how it works," Hermione snapped. "But that aside, it's more that she's actually changed and you just don't want to believe it!"

"Want? _Want_? What does that have to do with anything?"

"You tell me, Ginny, since you're the one bent on hating her."

"If I don't trust her, that's my business Hermione."

"Then stay out of mine! I believe her. The end. Finite. Your opinion has no influence over my decision. I know she's a good person, and whether you believe it or not is totally irrelevant."

"Fine, Hermione. I'm leaving."

A crack heralded Ginny's Disapparition. Ron's voice floated through the walls. "Hermione, are you sure about this?"

"Ron, I am totally sure. I know you side with your sister, but honestly, I don't give a damn what you two think. I am surer of this than anything lately, and I'm sticking with it. If it comes down to picking, I'm going with Morrigan, because she alone has been completely loyal to me over the past month. And she's only been my friend for that long. Seems I'm a better judge in new friends than old."

There was a long silence and then Morrigan barely picked up, "Is that so? Well, if you're going to pick the girl that hurt Ginny like that, then I don't want anything to do with you."

He, too, Apparated from the flat. Hermione sat on the sofa with sigh, worn out by her conflicting friends.

Morrigan crept out her door and Hermione saw her immediately. She flushed. "You heard that whole thing, didn't you?"

Morrigan nodded silently. "Look, Hermione, I really don't want to be the reason you three aren't friends anymore. I'll just find another flat and things will even out in time."

"No!" Hermione said fiercely. "After this war is over, you are going to be met with some severe opposition. When people hear that you turned sides, that you're free…they're not going to be too happy. But you can't change your life just because they don't like you. Morrigan, there's a difference between being humble and being abused. If you change what you like doing just because some people dislike you, you're letting them be the bad guy and yourself the victim. You might have oppressed people in the past, but you can't let other people do it to you in the future. You will handle your guilt in your own way, and it's not their responsibility to punish you. People cannot take justice into their own hands because nothing but the law is nearly objective, and even that was written by men."

Morrigan's shoulders slumped and she said, "I just wish it was easier."

"So do I," Hermione sighed. "So do I."


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve: The Valentine's Day Episode**

It was February ninth, ten in the morning. Hermione was writing in her calendar over some cereal while Morrigan was reading about hags in Iceland. Unprompted, Hermione said, "Valentine's Day is next week, on the fourteenth."

Morrigan looked up at her. "What's Valentine's Day?"

Hermione sighed and put her spoon back in the bowl. "Valentine's Day is basically a consumer's holiday—it's an excuse to buy chocolates, cards, stuffed animals, and any other clutter that will fill up your storage for years, on the basis of 'love.'"

"Hermione, this is very unlike you. You love holidays! What is it about this one that's making you so cynical?"

Hermione sighed again, this time more dramatically. "It's Ron. He's mad at me, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to spend Valentine's Day together. It's not like we have some big tradition or anything. It's just…nice…to spend Valentine's Day with a boy. And since Ron's my boyfriend—well, I think so, anyway—it just seems that I should be spending it with him. I just don't think that's possible this year."

"Why not?" Morrigan asked with a frown.

"He hasn't replied to any of my owls, and I tried asking Harry about it, but Harry flat out refused to speak about me and Ron. Apparently he's sick of being in the middle of our disputes."

"Do you argue often?" Morrigan asked, surprised.

"Yes," Hermione told her glumly. "This isn't even the worse. But I did tell him that I would pick someone I barely know over him, and we've been friends for a little under a decade."

Morrigan winced and Hermione regretted telling her this little snippet.

"Anyway," she continued, "I'm not looking forward to a lonely Valentine's Day this year."

"It'll work out," Morrigan said, reaching across the table to pat Hermione compassionately on the hand.

"I sure as hell hope so," Hermione grunted and went back to writing plans on her calendar.

Morrigan felt a little guilty. If it weren't for her, this wouldn't be a problem. She didn't really have the means to make it up to Hermione, especially since every plan she'd had to date had been lousy. Still, she kept thinking about what on earth she could do, and as she thought, the seeds of a plan entered Morrigan's mind; she knew instantly what she needed to do. She stood and stalked into her room, closing the door behind her quietly. She opened the stationary kit Hermione had stuck on the bookshelf and picked out two note cards. She picked out an edged quill for fancy writing and began to scrawl as glamorously as possible. After she was done, she repeated the same text on the other one, only with different names:

_Mr. Ronald Weasley/Ms. Hermione Granger—_

_You are invited to a romantic evening on February the Fourteenth, where your presence would be most welcome. This ticket is to be presented by the door at eight o' clock sharp._

_Hope to see you there_

Morrigan sat back and, quite satisfied, creased this carefully into a square fold. On the outside she added a bit of flair, then left the room, walking to the perch upon which Hermione's owl Urma sat. Morrigan tied the letter to the owl's leg, handed her a treat, whispered her destination, and sent her out the window to the Weasleys'.

With a smirk, she went back to her bedroom to begin planning this "romantic evening."

Two days later, Morrigan received a letter from Ron, although it was addressed to Hermione. Morrigan was grateful that the bird was smarter than Ron and that it hadn't blown the whole event.

_Hermione_—

_Given the fact that I'm currently unhappy with you due to your own stupidity, wouldn't it just be a better idea to skip dinner at your place and do something low-key at Diagon Alley or something?_

_Ron_

Morrigan swore angrily. Hermione looked up from her papers on the couch and said, "What's your problem?"

"Erm, I've got a hangnail," Morrigan lied lamely.

"Oh. Fix that then," Hermione said, sending her a strange look.

Morrigan went into her bedroom to gather her thoughts. _The dolt used a dinner invitation to bicker with his girlfriend. He's got all the sensitivity of a blunt axe._

She wrote an angry reply in what she hoped appeared to be Hermione's hand:

_Ron—_

_This was my way of apologizing and trying to mend the rift. _Morrigan winced. Hermione had no intention, probably, of apologizing. Still, it was the only way to get the moron to come. _Just come, I promise it will be worth your while._

_Hermione_

Morrigan looked down at a studied paper of Hermione's handwriting. She'd been half expecting a response, and therefore prepared for such. Of course, she'd thought it would be an R.S.V.P.--not a stupid retort.

She went back to the living room and gave the bird the letter, once again instructing her where to go. The bird took off and Morrigan watched her go anxiously.

Morrigan checked everything off her to-do list. The roast beef? Done. Cake? Done. Meat pasties? Done. Wine? Done. Sides? Done. Now all she needed was the—shit, she'd forgotten to give Hermione her ticket. The girl was currently shopping. Morrigan had given her some money and told her to go buy herself something really nice to wear because she needed the therapy. If Morrigan hadn't been watching an excessive amount of television, she wouldn't have come up with the idea. Apparently all women needed to buy break-neck heels and a smutty dress if they were having romantic troubles. Morrigan couldn't have known that this was an enormous cliché, and if she judged life by the stupid daytime sitcoms that Hermione occasionally liked to watch, she would find very soon that her budget had run short and the bills had run high.

It was seven. If she went to Diagon Alley right now and grabbed Hermione, she could get the girl home, in her outfit, her silly makeup on, and ready to look her best for Ron's arrival. She grabbed her wand from the counter and Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. The wizards around her glanced at her irritably and she sent them a rather nasty gesture. She went into the side alley and tapped the right bricks to get into Diagon Alley. Hurriedly she found Hermione in Madame Maulkin's, being fitted.

Morrigan looked down at her watch. "Hurry, please," she told Madame Maulkin, who threw her a dirty look.

Hermione raised her eyebrow questioningly and Morrigan just tapped her toe impatiently. Finally, a harassed Madame Maulkin finished with Hermione and her clothing and sent her out the door with her packaged clothing.

"Good," Morrigan said promptly. "You have an hour to get ready."

"Ready for _what_?" Hermione asked.

"For your date."

"MY WHAT?!"

"Your date. With Ronald Weasley. At eight."

"When did this happen?" Hermione shrilled.

"Look, I went through a hard bit of manipulation and cooking and preparing and et cetera, so cooperate or I'll hex you."

"Fine," Hermione grumbled. "How did you get Ron to come?"

"I told you, I manipulated him. I had to convince him that you planned this."

"Wow, Morrigan, your Death Eater qualities _are_ being put to some use."

"Oh shut up. You'll be happy I did this."

"I already am," Hermione confessed. "I'm just a little alarmed."

"By what?"

"Putting up with Ron after he realizes you put this all on."

"He doesn't have to know."

"Sure. He'll find out."

"Wait until after the meal."

Hermione sighed then said, "All right. And you're going to be helping me get ready? Because one hour is _not _enough."

Morrigan stopped in her tracks. They were right outside the Leaky Cauldron. "You're joking, right? I couldn't make a Mediterranean siren beautiful—and they're already gorgeous."

"You'll do fine. You'll just be doing the small stuff."

Morrigan grumbled and then both Apparated with a crack.

At Hermione's, the girl rushed to her room to put on the robes. They looked more like a dress, and Hermione admitted this had been her intent. The dress was a silver, knee-length number, tied around the neck as a halter. When Hermione came out of the bathroom to have Morrigan tie the neck, Morrigan had to admit that Hermione looked very good. "I'm quite impressed, Hermione. When you're not hiding yourself behind robes and sweaters, you're something else."

"Morrigan, you're frightening me."

"Oh quiet, you. I was just saying you look nice and that Ron will be quite pleased."

"Do you think so?" Hermione asked uncertainly, and turned around. Morrigan smiled.

"Definitely. Now go put your makeup and crap on."

Morrigan began to set the table, lighting two candles. She placed the roast beef between the candles and then placed the accessory foods on either side of the roast beef. She set the plates and the silverware according to proper standards, then stood back, beaming. She put the cake on the counter, covering it with a glass case. Everything was perfect.

Hermione came out of the bathroom, looking ravishing. Her hair had been placed in a complicated knot on top of her head and she'd put pearl drop earrings in her ears. She gasped when she saw the sight awaiting her eyes.

"Did you--?" she asked breathlessly.

"All myself," Morrigan told her with a grin.

"Thank you," Hermione breathed, awed.

"Your date is due to arrive…now," Morrigan said, and sure enough, there was a knock at the door. Hermione scurried back into the bathroom, while Morrigan went to the door and answered it, finding two men there.

"Draco!" Morrigan exclaimed, surprised. "Oh, Weasley, Hermione's inside. Go on in."

Ron nodded wordlessly and moved past her. Morrigan went out into the hall, suddenly feeling very conspicuous in her stained jeans, sweatshirt and unbrushed hair. "So, what are you--?"

"Well, I figured Weasley and Granger would want you out of their hair, and you probably didn't want to be alone all night, so I thought I'd stop by and see if you want a bite to eat, or get a drink, or whatever."

Morrigan blushed splendidly, and she managed to stutter out something along the lines of, "Sure, one moment, have to change…" before retreating hastily into the flat. She came back out in her green robes about two minutes later, her hair slightly tamer.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah," Draco said, standing straight and independent of the wall. "Where you do you want to go?"

"Is there somewhere _out _of Diagon Alley?" Morrigan asked. "I've been at all of those restaurants about a thousand times each."

Draco smiled understandingly. "There's a nice joint on a lake in Scotland. We could just Apparate…?"

"Well, I don't really know where that is," Morrigan said.

"You can Side-Along Apparate," he told her. "Sure, it's less comfortable than Apparating by yourself, but at least you'll be able to do it next time."

Morrigan made a face, then took his hand. Looking around surreptitiously, Draco Apparated out of the apartment building and suddenly they were standing in the lobby of a rather nice bar. A few of the seats overlooked the lake, and Draco led the way to one of these seats.

Morrigan sat across from Draco, feeling rather awkward. This was a date, or so she thought. How could she tell?

They ordered quickly, Draco like an expert and Morrigan like the indecisive difficult customer. When the waiter walked away, shaking his head, Draco laughed at her.

"So, what have you been doing with your time, Draco?" Morrigan asked, ignoring his amusement.

"Mostly the same thing you've been doing—moping around my house and waiting for the Order to give me something to do."

"How do you know what I've been doing?" Morrigan asked, frowning.

"I've been talking to Hermione," he told her with a shrug.

"Wait, you've been Owling Hermione but not me?" Morrigan demanded.

"You never told me to Owl."

"I had hoped you would anyway."

"You should have started it, then."

Morrigan rolled her eyes and changed the subject.

Their food came in record time. Morrigan had picked only the chicken salad, while Draco had gone for a hearty meal of lamb. They ate in silence, occasionally commenting on something inane, but they kept mostly silent. Both pondered as to what the other was thinking. Neither could have predicted what the other was thinking, so it was futile to even try, but Morrigan guessed that Draco regretted having taken her out, since she was boring and useless, and Draco thought that Morrigan was probably irritated at him for bringing her out without having any specific purpose.

Morrigan finished first, then leaned against the window to look outside. Snow had fallen the day past, and the lake had frozen solid. Morrigan suddenly had a very funny thought—that she would very much like to go outside. She waited patiently for Draco to finish before she proposed this idea, which he seemed to like. Morrigan picked her cloak up on the cloakrack and then led Draco outside. It was, of course, very cold, and their breath came in thick clouds. Morrigan absolutely loved the colors the moon threw on the blanket of snow, and she ran ahead to take a look at the lake on a pass ahead.

"Hurry up!" she urged, sounding slightly childish.

"Hold on," Draco grunted up at her. "I don't really want to slip all the way down this hill."

Morrigan had climbed the hill with no difficulty and was now sitting on the ledge overlooking the lake, having dried a large patch for herself and Draco. When he reached the top, he wrinkled his nose at the slapdash seat in the middle of the snow. Morrigan tugged at his cloak, and he sank to the ground with her, looking at the view with her.

"This is amazing," she said out loud. "It's one of those generic sights, you know? You'll use this picture to remember tonight, or maybe February, or maybe—" Morrigan stopped herself at "me," so it now stood between them unspoken and ominous.

"What will _you _remember it for?" Draco asked her, nudging her slightly.

"Oh, Valentine's Day, I suppose," she said with a shrug. "Or winter beauty. It seems like something you would paint and put over your fireplace during wintertime."

"Mhm," Draco agreed. "Listen, you just want to go back to my place? It's still pretty early."

"Draco Malfoy!" Morrigan exclaimed, shocked.

"I didn't mean _that_," Draco snickered.

"All right," Morrigan said. "Where is it you live?"

"Eh, why don't we just Side-Along again?"

Morrigan glowered. "Fine."

Draco grabbed her hand, and with the familiar pressure on all sides, they were pushed through time and space, ending up in Draco's kitchen. His house was warm and sizeable, although it wasn't the Malfoy manner. It was actually a Georgian cottage—in other words a very large dwelling—situated comfortably on a hill. The sitting room was large, with creamy walls, a fireplace, and navy leather furniture. The walls were devoid of any decoration, save a family picture of a young Draco and his parents. In fact, it was a picture of Christmas morning. Lucius was uncharacteristically dressed in silk pajamas, sitting in a comfortable chair by the fire. Narcissa had a silken robe and feathered slippers, her hair plaited down her back. Between them Draco sat on the ground, a mess of parcel paper surrounding him, and he was playing with an animated dragon toy. Lucius smiled cheekily at the camera, while Narcissa looked adoringly at her son, who was sticking his tongue out.

Morrigan laughed silently to herself, sitting down in the armchair. She pointed a wand at the logs in the fireplace and immediately they ignited, cracking merrily. Draco entered, levitating mugs of tea, sugar, and cream. "I suppose I could have the house elf do it, but I had him filing the library and I wouldn't want to pull him away from his task."

Morrigan accepted her mug wordlessly, pouring cream and adding two lumps of sugar to the dark substance.

"What do you think?" Draco asked her, gesturing vaguely, and took a sip of his tea.

"I like it. It's cozy, but still roomy. You seem to be doing well."

"Actually, I sold Malfoy Manor and came to live here. It belonged to a distant cousin, and when they died, I was given it. Most fortunately, the Dark Lord didn't know about it or he would have known immediately where to find me."

"Yes, that is most fortunate," Morrigan murmured, and sipped her tea. "Where precisely are we located?"

"Humberside," he told her promptly.

"Oh, I bet it's lovely during the summer. Do you often visit the shore?"

"Morrigan, I live right by it," he told her, laughing, and beckoned her to look out the window. Sure enough, she could see a lighthouse in the distance.

"So you're a lucky bastard," she said dryly, withdrawing from the window.

"My, we do sound bitter," he taunted.

"You won't find me bragging about a seaside cottage," she sniffed.

"As you like it," he said, still chuckling, then finished the rest of his tea.

"Do you miss them?" Morrigan asked quite suddenly, and Draco wasn't entirely sure whom she meant. "Your parents, I mean," she added quickly, as if reading his mind.

"Yes, profoundly," Draco told her quietly. "I won't tell you that we had a unique relationship, that we weren't without problems or defects, but we were very close, despite what outside eyes might have seen."

"What might they have seen?" Morrigan questioned, her brow furrowing.

"My father was rather…strict…in public. I believe Potter and his friends were under the impression that Father abused me."

"Did he?"

"No," Malfoy snapped harshly, and Morrigan flinched. "Sorry," he amended. "I don't want anyone to believe that. The truth is that my parents have always indulged me. I was their only heir, their—their baby." Draco's throat constricted suddenly, feeling very dry. He coughed, as if it would make this better. "Everything they did, they did it for me. Everything they encouraged me to do, they told me to do it because they thought it was the right course of action. They believed I was superior to Muggleborns and Halfbloods. They didn't know the difference between right and wrong. They were very sadly deluded." He laughed bitterly. Morrigan sat frozen to her seat, unsure of what to say. Draco solved the problem for her and went on. "In the end, it didn't matter that they were rich or that they were Pureblooded. Voldemort destroyed them regardless."

Morrigan repressed a shudder. She had been there, and worse, she had heard Bellatrix tell Rodolphus about it. Morrigan had eavesdropped on them while the couple was having an intimate moment. She'd been trying to find some kind of disloyalty to her lord, thinking that Bellatrix would reveal some sort of betrayal to her husband. Instead, Morrigan had heard the details of Narcissa's death and Lucius' torture from Bellatrix's point of view. Bellatrix cried hysterically to Rodolphus, telling him of Narcissa's last pleads of mercy, her husband's screams. Lucius had attempted to rip his own lips off. At the time, Morrigan had viewed the story with curiosity and intrigue. Now she found it repulsive and horrifying. Lucius was still in St. Mungo's, beside the Longbottoms and Gilderoy Lockhart, also quite insane.

Morrigan was speechless. "I really don't know what to say in these sort of matters," she confessed. "I've never really experienced any type of love."

"I'm sure your mother loved you," he told her stiffly.

"Yeah, but not enough. And I was a kid. You don't really know that it's love you're feeling until you're older, and that's only because you understand love by then. I may be one of the 'good guys' now, but I still don't know what love is."

"It's not as complicated as you think it is," Draco told her uncomfortably.

"You want to try to explain it to me, then?" Morrigan asked shrewdly.

"I—can't," he finished lamely. "Look, it's something you have to experience to understand, and it's easy to experience love."

"No, it's not," Morrigan laughed bitterly. "Love is so much more than an experience, and you don't just feel it once and then forget about it. It scars you forever and ever. It can be a really cool scar, something you can show off to your mates and say, 'Yes, I saved a little kid from a fire and got this one.' Or you can say, 'Yeah, my best friend pushed me out of a tree.' But you can also say, 'This is the story of how I lost the use of my eyes.' I mean, that's, of course, an anomaly. But still, it's not _just _an experience. It's a lifestyle."

"You seem to understand it more than you think," Draco mused softly, as if more to himself.

"I understand what it does to people," Morrigan corrected him sharply. "I don't understand what it is. It's an emotion, right? _Except_ emotions are fleeting. Happy, sad, angry—they all last a moment on the grand scale. But a person can go almost their entire life loving the same person."

"If you know how it works, what don't you understand?"

"Does anyone really understand it?" Morrigan questioned. "Can anyone really understand without having loved someone? Why doesn't the Dark Lord understand love? Why does he hate it so much? It's obvious, isn't it? He never let anyone love him, and no one ever wanted to."

"Would you love him?"

"There was a time that I fancied myself in love with him, yes." Draco looked alarmed, so Morrigan added quickly, "Not romantically. It was just that strong attachment of loyalty that we all fancy to be love. It was a fervent infatuation, obsession. I lived _for _him, not just around him."

"Morrigan, your concept of love is strangely defined for someone who doesn't understand it."

"I told you," Morrigan snapped angrily, "I've never been privy to it myself. There's no way I could possibly describe it or term it—it's just…I used to have impossibly high standards, I think. Not for a mate, just for people in general. The only person that qualified was the Dark Lord. And now…those standards don't apply, so I'm not sure what I'm to do emotionally. How do I attach myself to people? I can't learn, because the only people who have any esteem for me seem to be you and Hermione, so how do I judge based on two people? The affection I have for you both, my first friends—is that love? Are there different types of love? But if there are, why not come up with a different name for the other type? Is there already? I just don't know," she exploded furiously. "I think that I don't want love, that I don't want the pain that comes along with it. I think, if I love someone, then I'm leaving myself open to them, shieldless and in their mercy, and how can I lean on someone like that? Depending on any variable means that when that variable is gone, you fall. And who wants that for themselves?"

"But what else is there?" Draco asked her astutely. "What else is there to live for?"

"That's the problem," Morrigan burst out. "I don't know!" She laughed disbelievingly. "It's so, so hard trying to make decisions based on a vague notion that may or may not exist, that you don't know the least about. I have all these fabulous ideas in my head about what it would be like, how it would feel, but I don't know if those are realistic, or even possible, let alone probable. So, how do I decide when I don't even know what the decision is?"

Draco stared at her for a moment then shook his head. "I don't know, but I do know that eventually you'll understand. Eventually, time will show you, and all these wounds that seem to be salted by your newfound morality will heal. Some time in the future, you and I will having a similar conversation, but you'll be speaking like a veteran."

"How do you know?"

"Morrigan, this may seem unbelievable to you, but there is someone out there that's willing to love a mad woman like you."

"I don't want to love anyone who would love me," Morrigan joked carelessly.

Draco's eyes flickered momentarily, but the unreadable emotion that had been there passed to quickly for Morrigan to comprehend, and therefore she left it alone. "Trust me," Draco said. "Just trust me."

"I do," Morrigan said quietly.

"Good."

"But that's not the question anymore is it? It seems like so long ago that you told me to question not why the Dark Lord trusted me, but why I trusted him. It seems like it's your turn to do the like, because I have to ask you: do you trust _me_?"

Draco thought for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted finally, and Morrigan's face fell.

"Look, I know that's harsh, but I don't really trust anyone. And you barely trust yourself. I don't know if I can place my trust on someone like—like that, like you."

Morrigan nodded. "I understand. It all comes back to the question: would I trust me? Of course not. I _don't _trust me. Why should you trust me?" Draco could see that she was still hurt. He knew she trusted him implicitly, but still, he couldn't help it.

"What's easier for you, Morrigan? The darker side of life, or the lighter?" Draco asked curiously, and Morrigan looked surprised.

"That was rather…sudden," she said carefully.

"Just answer the question," Draco commanded her delicately.

"I—I never had to take responsibility for my actions. But now I have less to take responsibility for. Or rather, the things I do now, I don't mind taking responsibility for them, because they're not…" She searched for a word on the ceiling. "Evil. They're not evil. And it's not easy taking responsibility even now, but I know I have to take responsibility and why, I don't think I could ever go back. I did awful things, and awful things were done to me. I was victimized almost as much as I victimized others. The Dark Lord _lied _to me. He told me to do these things, he told me what I was doing was right. And I believed him. Now every time I think back on every death, every tortured person, I feel their pain tenfold, because I can't forget about it. This pain isn't fleeting. I know that's selfish, but if I had known—I would never have done it. I know, it's redundant to say that, but when I do say it, I mean it was such frightening sincerity, I wish I could change it all. I wish I could take it all back. But I can never take back what I did. And I won't ever try. I'll just be the best I can be for the future, not for the past."

Draco was taken aback. "And you thought this all up on your own?"

"Yes," she told him. "It comes to me before I sleep. When my mind is off its guard."

"That's intriguing," Draco commented.

"Maybe," Morrigan said with a shrug.

And while he watched her, Draco thought to himself, _What have I done? For once in my life, I can be proud of how I've affected a person, of how I've influenced their life. It hasn't ended up in pain, or death, or sadness. It's become wisdom and an endearing passion. _ Most alarming was the next thought: _What now?_

* * *

Ron made his way around Flaherty and stood awkwardly in the living room, clutching a box in his hand. The table was set up elegantly with candles and appetizing food. He could feel his stomach rumbling—or were those nerves? Hermione was nowhere to be seen. He sat down on the couch with a sigh, wondering what the hell he was doing here. _I shouldn't have come,_ he thought to himself. _This was a bad idea._

The bathroom door opened, showing a flood of light and illuminating Hermione. Ron's heart caught in his throat and he had to put a lot of effort into not dropping his jaw. Truthfully, Ron hadn't seen Hermione like this since fourth year, and even then she didn't look nearly as beautiful as she did now. Her hair was piled elegantly on top of her head, and her eyes were bright and beautiful. Her dress clung tightly to her hips and waist, tying behind her neck. She had finished off with blue heelless sandals.

Ron tried to stutter out a greeting, but failed miserably. Hermione smiled blushingly at him—this was better than an awkward hello.

"Hi," she said quietly, blushing prettily.

Ron stood and then handed her the box he had in his hand. Hermione stepped forward to receive it and opened it ceremoniously and slowly. Inside laid a very lifelike rose pendent on a silver chain. Hermione gasped and picked it up gently in her fingers. "Ron! I—thank you."

"You're welcome," Ron muttered shyly. "Thought it'd look good—er, let me help you…"

He went around her and took the pendent over her shoulders and then clasped it in back. Hermione went to the hall and viewed herself in the mirror. "I love it," she told him, turning to beam at him.

Ron shrugged his shoulders and said, "Should we eat?"

"Yes, sure," Hermione said, walking into the kitchen. Ron hurried to pull her chair out for her. She sat cheerily, and he pushed the chair up for her. "Thank you," she chimed gaily.

He sat across from her and then began to cut the beef. He put a piece on Hermione's plate and another on his own, then served the rest to Hermione who looked heartbreakingly happy. "How are things at the Burrow, Ronald?" she asked, and Ron looked up sharply, but couldn't bring himself to respond with the first thing that came to his mind.

"They're fine. Mum asked after you."

"That was sweet of her," Hermione pealed.

"Er…yeah."

They finished in silence, Hermione glancing surreptitiously up at Ron occasionally, while he did the same when she wasn't looking. Every once in a while, Hermione would reach up and touch the pendent, thinking about how strange it felt. Ron was nervous, and she was tired. But somehow, it was all worth it. It was worth it to be spending time with her boyfriend on St. Valentine's Day. There was nowhere else she would rather be—what were Morrigan and Draco doing right now? Were they having more fun? Could Draco enjoy Morrigan's company more than her, Hermione's, own? Hermione shook these thoughts from her head. They were wrong while Ron was sitting across from her. She had done too much thinking about Draco and not enough on Ron. That's one of those things that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

"It's rather quiet," Hermione said briskly, looking for something else to put her mind on.

"Yeah," Ron agreed.

"Music?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, sure."

She went to the CD player where Morrigan had already placed CDs for her own romantic ideas. Hermione laughed silently to herself, then put the CDs in the player, allowing the jazz to fill the air. She sat back down at the table and said aloud, "It was so nice of Morrigan to prepare this for us."

Ron choked loudly on his food, spitting a potato piece onto his plate. "_What_?" he spluttered, shocked.

"Nice. Morrigan. Prepare?" Hermione said slowly, emphasizing these key words.

"Sh-she--?"

"Yes, sh-she," Hermione repeated smugly. "She had only the best in mind. Now, moving from Morrigan's unprompted kindness, would you like to dance?"

Ron looked, if possible, even more stricken at the idea of dancing in the middle of Hermione's sitting room, especially dressed as he was and dressed as _she _was. Hermione didn't wait for a "no" which was undoubtedly what she would receive, and instead grabbed his hand and pulled him to a stand. She dragged him to the living room where she placed one of his hands firmly on her waist and the other in her own. Her other hand placed itself gently on his shoulder, and then she began to sway gently. Ron took the hint and began to imitate her actions.

"I've missed you, Ron," Hermione said softly, looking him in the eye. Ron couldn't quite meet her gaze, staring very hard at the space right beyond her. Hermione sighed dramatically. "This is all over, Ron. We should just move on and agree to disagree."

"Well, I can't really disagree with you anymore, can I?" Ron said slowly. "I mean, not with any substantial proof."

"Ronald!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Well, if you would stand by her that much, and if you have nothing to complain about, why should we? I might not like her, but if you trust her, I suppose I've got to."

"That's very wise of you," Hermione ventured cautiously.

"Well, don't get used to it," Ron said, smiling bravely. "It's more for your benefit than hers."

"Thanks," Hermione said, and she moved closer. They stood like that for a very long time. Ron's arms wrapped her close to his body, her face pressed against his chest. She breathed deeply, smelling that familiar smell of wood, baking bread, and something like pine.

After standing like that for some while, they migrated to the floor against the couch where Hermione leaned against Ron's tall frame, both hands clasped very tight in his hands. Hermione got an idea and slowly unfolded her arms from Ron's, standing quickly and running to her bedroom, then came back out with a camera in her hands.

Ron groaned, but she laughed and said, "Come on, Ron, we need a picture. There are so few of us."

Ron rolled his eyes, muttering mutinously, but when Hermione slid back onto his lap, smiled a crooked half smile that Hermione was particularly fond of while she snapped the picture.

She took a few more snapshots, then put the camera aside. She turned to face her Ron, staring at him with very big, bright eyes and then kissed him very softly on the lips.

"I love you," she said, and she meant it.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen: Venturing to the Burrow**

Mrs. Molly Prewett-Weasley is, as the cliché would have it, a very sweet woman. She cannot abide selfishness, rudeness, immodesty, pride, or sloth (which is quite high on the list of traits to abolish in some of her sons). Motherless children simply cry out to her to be adopted, and she can spot them like a Healer can spot Dragon Pox. You have her sympathy, whether you like it or not.

The point _is _that when planning the luncheon on March first, she was simply _obligated _to invite Morrigan and Draco.

Any woman other than Mrs. Weasley might believe this an unwise decision. Besides Hermione, no other individual wished to curse the rest of the table with the two Death Eaters (current member or not). However, Molly could not help herself. When her mind rested upon Draco's own familial losses, she felt a quiver of pain in her own heart. The poor dear was lost in the world that he had most certainly not been born into—a world where your name is irrelevant compared to how kind your parents have been to your fellow man. And even being a member of the Order of Phoenix cannot help you there.

Mrs. Weasley had a different reason for inviting Morrigan. Truthfully, Molly was tempted to leave Morrigan out of the invitation. However, this would seem tacky to invite Hermione and Draco when Morrigan was not invited herself. How would the girl feel? And if Hermione had, indeed, changed her, this would most certainly not help the girl. Besides, the rest of them would have to get used to the girl's presence sooner or later, and sooner was preferable to later.

Morrigan was positively thrilled to receive such an invitation, and threw herself headlong into finding the perfect gift to bring to her first invitation-luncheon. Hermione watched as Morrigan practically burst at the seams with enthusiasm, planning to make some lovely sourdough bread that would impress all at the table.

Hermione woke that morning, listening to Morrigan, clanging in the kitchen as she baked, with a growing dread. Sitting at a table with the Weasleys, Harry, Draco, and Morrigan would be a great challenge. There would be Mrs. Weasley, taking great pains to be civil and keep the conversation going. Mr. Weasley would be trying to cover up for his wife's overzealous attempts with his wise, measured manner. Fleur would be viewing Morrigan and Draco with ill-concealed curiosity, and the twins would be showing off and using little discretion—perhaps joking around with Morrigan about being Voldemort's favorite. Morrigan, she was sure, would take it in stride. However, it would be rather awkward for the rest of the table. Then there would also be Ginny, grinding her teeth and her eyes narrowed to slits for her anger.

Then what about Ron and Draco? Although Harry kept his past prejudices in reserve, Ron still hated Draco passionately. Any little remark from Draco would mostly likely set Ron off, and the boy would be flying across the table to punch the living daylights out of Draco. Even worse would be Draco proving his no-doubt amazing reflexes and humiliating Ron in front of Hermione and Fleur, therefore incensing his anger.

All Hermione could see was Ron leaping across the table and then suspended in midair, every face at the table a mixture of amusement and horror. She shuddered and sat up in bed, stretching her limbs. With a sigh, she swung her legs out of bed and went immediately to the dresser, where she dressed in comfortable, attractive black slacks and a light sweater. She put on her shoes and then exited, walking down the hall and stopping in the kitchen to laugh hysterically at the sight that met her eyes.

Every surface of her orderly kitchen had been covered in flour—including Morrigan. She was covered in the white, powdery substance, looking very alarmed at Hermione's sudden appearance.

"I'm just about to—" Morrigan started, but Hermione shook her head (with some great difficulty) at the baker, chortling to herself as she retreated to the sitting room where she watched over the counter as Morrigan shuffled around with flustered movements, trying to clean and at the same time watch her dough rise.

At the end of two hours, both girls had finished their dishes and had thoroughly cleaned the kitchen, only leaving for the Burrow when Hermione was good and satisfied with the way it looked. She held her dish of Yorkshire pudding aloft, turned once, and felt herself compress at all sides until she landed softly on the grass of the lawn of the Burrow, Morrigan right beside her. She, too, held her bread up and looked around at her surroundings, clearly unimpressed. "This is certainly…charming."

"Don't say a word," Hermione warned her, but Morrigan shrugged innocently.

"I didn't."

They went to the door and knocked, where Mrs. Weasley asked the security questions in her high, inquisitive voice used when interrogating visitors.

They were let in, where Mrs. Weasley hugged Hermione and let Morrigan in awkwardly. Morrigan handed her bread to the woman, who took it with a small smile. Hermione exchanged small talk before she retreated to the sitting room where her friends were. Morrigan knew what to expect there, and she didn't want to go in with the redheaded girl. Before resigning to an hour or so of such torture, she looked at Mrs. Weasley almost pleadingly and said, "Do you need any help, Mrs. Weasley?"

Molly shook her head. "I appreciate the offer, Miss Flaherty, but I've quite got it under control."

"You're sure—?" With a resigned sigh, Morrigan exited the kitchen and into the sitting room, where she sat on the stairs with her chin in the palm of her hand, watching Hermione, Ginny, Harry, Ron, Fred, George, Bill, and even Fleur converse rapidly, joy written on their faces as they spent time with their closest friends. She found herself somewhat amused by the twins. Once she giggled aloud at their antics, and one of them turned to wink at her kindly.

Occasionally she tried to put in her two cents, but her own efforts were met with silence or a change of subject, usually led by Ginerva Weasley, who would not discuss anything civilly with Morrigan. When the subject turned to vampires and their allegiance to Voldemort, Morrigan shifted in her seat. _This is it_, she thought to herself. _I'll finally be included on this one._ She looked for an opening, but there didn't seem to be any, until a debate rose on whether or not a cross could kill a vampire or not. Ginny was of the opinion that it couldn't, while Harry steadily disagreed and thought that yes, a cross would burn a vampire. Finally, after a bit of "Yeah huh" and "Nuh uh"'s, Morrigan piped up, "Actually, a cross has no effect upon vampires whatsoever. The Christian church started that belief upon Roman expansion into Romania. Vampires have been existent for far longer than the Catholic Church, and such an evolvement would take far longer than the length of time they have been exposed to Christianity."

A long silence ensued, and Morrigan thought that, since she had defended Ginny, she would surely be a bit kinder to her. Instead, the girl said, "You know, Harry, I think you might be on to something. I bet the cross can hurt vampires, if not kill them."

Morrigan flushed angrily, feeling a bit hurt that this time, Hermione didn't defend her. But the more righteous part of Morrigan scolded her for such a thought. _You can't depend on Hermione all the time. Besides, Ginny is her priority as a friend. You, my dear, are not_. Still, Morrigan couldn't help but to feel that little pang of pain when she thought of Hermione's blank expression as she looked away and out the window, searching for something to look at—anything else but Morrigan's stricken face.

Luckily, just on time, someone knocked on the door and Mrs. Weasley called out for the security question and a quiet voice answered her. Morrigan and Hermione's hearts soared simultaneously, when a blond head of hair entered, the silvery blue eyes just beneath it following. He, too, handed a dish of something indescript to Mrs. Weasley, then went to the sitting room with a murmured thanks. He sat immediately next to Morrigan on the stairs, who looked relieved at his company.

Draco knew immediately what situation he had found Morrigan in, instantly pitying the poor girl for her lack of decent company or at least conversation. Morrigan now sat beside him in silence, but it was measured and comfortable. Both of them felt content in that simple bond between them. It was friendly, but not charged with romance, as once it had been between Draco and Hermione. Now they just felt like old chums, and some part of both of them wanted it to be like that forever. There were no extra words to be tacked onto "friend" such as "boy," "girl," or "with benefits." It was simpler that way, and somehow they felt it would always be that way.

"How've you getting on with this lot?" Draco asked her quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Morrigan sighed, but smiled. "Oh, barely. Or not at all, based on whatever scale you're using."

"Probably not at all," Draco said, smirking typically. "But I understand how it is. They're quite a clique, this bunch. Sure they're 'kind,' and they're the heroes of Hogwarts. But if you're not one of them from the beginning, the likelihood of getting in with them is near impossible. Might as well face it now, Flaherty—they don't want us, never have, and so we'll never be one of them." He sighed as he looked at the crestfallen expression on her face. "You shouldn't even _want _to be in with them. Some of us can't be most popular Quidditch player that couldn't save a Quaffle or the Boy Who Might Not Live." His face was twisted with bitterness, and Morrigan felt a stab of pity. "Not all of us got to do what we wanted to," he whispered, and Morrigan put a comforting hand on his.

"There will come a time when they will envy," she told him. "We can't always be the ones envying them."

"Sure," Draco said sarcastically. "That split second before that jet of green light hits them full on, they'll wish they weren't going to die before us."

Morrigan sighed. "We shouldn't wish for _that _kind of envy."

"I don't," Draco told her. "I just think that's the only time they'd ever envy us."

"There's going to be something," Morrigan reassured him.

"Don't hold your breath," Draco muttered.

"Enough about this," Morrigan commanded him sharply. "Let's move on to something more pleasant. How is the Animagus process coming? Hermione told me that you're going to proceed whether or not the Ministry processes your request positively or not."

Draco went into a lengthy explanation of the process, which Morrigan followed in fascination. She had often imagined herself becoming an Animagus, although she wasn't entirely sure she could pick an animal to become. She also didn't know if she could go through the process herself. She had heard that there were certain parts that quick wandwork and thinking was necessary, and she wasn't sure if she had what it took to go through that process. She'd never been good at thinking on her think. It took a long time before she was sure of what to do, and almost none of what she did on impulse worked out positively.

"The potion is a branch of the Polyjuice Potion, only there are added ingredients, such as the heartstring of a horse, which makes the potion permanent. The boomslang isn't added, because it makes animal transformation difficult."

"Ah, yes, you're not supposed to use Polyjuice for animal transformation."

"Exactly. After you take the potion, there's a combination of spells you have to use, which have to be done in a precise order, and one right after the other."

"I suppose it's to make transformation instantaneous and painless," Morrigan ascertained confidently.

"Yes, but it's also a ritual. Animal transformation was considered a sacred change by the Ancients, and therefore, when they were writing the rules of magic, they made sure to make it a difficult and significant process."

"Dinner!" Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen, and with a rush, the entire bunch bustled into the kitchen where the table had been extended toward the dining room. Morrigan and Draco stood awkwardly, Draco allowing Morrigan down the steps before he followed her into the dining room.

Draco sat at the end, across from Fred, Morrigan beside Draco, across from George, Hermione beside Morrigan, and Ron across from her, as the table extended on. Fred and George provided some end-of-the-table entertainment by making their food put on a magic show, pulling potato rabbits of hollowed out okra. Morrigan began to laugh loudly, causing Mrs. Weasley to glance toward the end of the table. The twins' food immediately stopped its movement and ceased cutting each other in half.

"How are you two doing in that apartment of yours?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her eyes shifting between Morrigan and Hermione. Morrigan looked at Hermione, eyes wide, unsure of what to say.

Hermione chewed her food and then said slowly, "It's lovely. We're getting along quite well, so it's actually a lot of fun."

"That's nice to hear. What are you planning to do as a profession, dear?" Molly asked Morrigan, who was frozen, her mouth slightly open.

"I haven't thought about that yet," Morrigan told her carefully. "I'm very interested in inter-creature politics."

"Ah, you might want to work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, then?" Mr. Weasley asked her.

"Maybe," Morrigan said with a shrug. For some reason, talking to Mr. Weasley was a bit more comfortable.

"Any specific reason?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"It's just interesting. I know a few things about Dark creatures, and I assume they're going to need help in that apartment when the war concludes."

"You're very right," Bill said, nodding his head. "Specific groups such as giants or werewolves have their own hierarchy. The werewolves picked Greyback as their leader, and the giants each have their own chief. Once You-Know-Who's gone, we're going to need to ascertain they won't continue his work without him."

"We might even have to offer them some of the same things that You-Know-Who offered them," Arthur added. "Such as Wizarding privileges, or stricter governing to their rights. The Ministry isn't very good about enforcing the laws _for _non-wizarding creatures, but they do like to enforce the ones _against_."

"The Dark Lord created his own doctrine for the Dark Creatures. It allowed them free reign under Him, which included jobs, money, food, and room," Morrigan told them, putting down her fork in favor of an interesting conversation.

"Did you read it yourself?" Bill asked with a frown.

"Not all of it," Morrigan admitted. "Some of it was written in strange tongues. I didn't understand them. They were probably written for the benefit of Seth Ammut."

"Who's Seth Ammut?" Harry asked curiously.

"I can't believe you haven't heard of him, Harry," Hermione said amazedly. "He's the spokesman of the vampires—the oldest one in recorded history. Supposedly he's from Egypt, but no one really knows because he claims to be over nine thousand years old."

"Why _haven't_I heard of him?" Harry asked, frowning. "Surely he's a pretty big name."

"Actually, he's not. He likes seclusion. He doesn't even talk to the Dark Lord," Morrigan told him. "Only a few vampires actually took the Dark Lord up on his offer. They're usually pretty independent."

"And that's why we haven't been able to convince any to come to our side," Harry determined questioningly.

"Yes, Harry."

"They also like to stay away from the battle of good and evil," Morrigan quipped. "Most are of the opinion that when they are…created, they lose their souls, and are therefore beings of complete neutrality. They have the capability to make the choice, but they drink blood, which wizards have historically considered indicative of evil. There are some that consider themselves as 'good,' and only hunt beasts, but most choose human prey. Fortunately, they don't have to eat but once every month."

Ginny finally exploded with a malicious comment. "Oh, yes, _fortunately_. It would be too bad if they fed any less infrequently."

Morrigan turned a blank stare at Ginny, devoid of emotion but full of cool disregard. The red-haired girl felt a shiver travel down her spine and a feeling of cold dread filled her body. At that moment, Ginny could see the same woman who had tortured her without so much as a flicker of emotion. "I'm sorry, Miss Weasley, if you think that my phrasing displays any lack of feeling or esteem for my fellow humans, but that is not what the intent was."

Hermione felt proud at Morrigan's reply and couldn't help but to be a bit smug at the expression of irritation on Ginny's face. Morrigan herself was satisfied with her response. The first thing that Morrigan had wanted to do was whip out her wand and curse the girl into tragic oblivion, but she had desisted, thanks to Draco's steadying hand on her left arm which reminded her to keep herself from using magic. If not for his presence, Morrigan was sure that she would have resorted to habitual violence.

"I'm glad we have that cleared up," Ginny said stiffly, her eyes equally cool after she had steadied herself.

Arthur turned the conversation to a more comfortable mode, lightening the mood almost immediately. On a more boring topic, Fred turned to Morrigan and said, "So, bet life as a goodie is way more boring than as a baddie."

Morrigan smiled easily, wiggling her eyebrows. "Hell yeah," she snorted. "It was way more interesting. Even though there were a lot more rules. I mean, they were different. There were a lot of _manners _rules."

"Are you serious?" George asked incredulously, jumping into the conversation.

"Oh yeah. You know Purebloods. They're really into the whole manners and who's-who stuff. Depending on your rank, you sat farther up the table, with Voldemort at the very head." Morrigan thought to herself, _Just as well. They knew better how to conduct themselves around the Dark Lord. _"I myself, despite the Dark Lord's personal liking towards me, didn't even sit all that close to him. I was fifteenth from the top. Young member, and all."

"That's boring," Fred said loudly. "If you're going to be bad, you might as well be able to get away with loads more, you know?"

"Ha!" Morrigan laughed. "There's just as many rules under the Dark Lord. Maybe more."

"I'd never thought of that," Draco said quietly, "but I think you're right. I'm far more at ease with everyone here, and you know how well we get on…."

Morrigan nodded and took a bite of her food. The levity of the subject had quickly gotten dire, and therefore was no longer of any interest or worth in pursuing.

By the end of the meal, Morrigan was sure she had proved herself to most of the table members. Fred and George thought she was interesting; to Harry she was even more knowledgeable than before; Ginny watched her harder than before, unfortunately; Mr. Weasley rather liked her; and Mrs. Weasley decided that she needed to reevaluate her previous thoughts. Morrigan wasn't sure Ginny would ever be dissuaded from her current position, but she hoped time would help.

After dinner, Hermione and Morrigan offered to clean up, and Mrs. Weasley accepted gratefully. Morrigan levitated the dishes to the sink where she charmed the dishes to wash themselves in organized turns. Hermione began to cover the leftover food for later. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," Morrigan said, wiping the table off with a wet rag.

"Oh, you're welcome, Morrigan," Mrs. Weasley said hesitantly, unsure of whether to call Morrigan by her first name or surname.

"It was really nice. I've never been to a family dinner before, so it was different," Morrigan continued.

"Oh, really?" Molly asked faintly.

"Yeah. My parents died when I was very little, so I never had a whole lot family around." Morrigan said this matter-of-factly, not looking for sympathy. She received it, however.

"Oh you poor dear," Mrs. Weasley simpered. "How sad! Did they--?"

Morrigan turned her head questioningly.

"Did they die in the war?"

"Erm, sort of," Morrigan said tentatively. "I don't really…"

"Oh, of course you don't want to talk about it," Mrs. Weasley said quickly, resuming her work.

"Anyway, thank you so much for including me. It was truly lovely."

"Oh, that's all right, dear," Molly told her. "We'll have to do it again for your benefit."

Hermione rolled her eyes from her side of the kitchen. Morrigan was drinking in the attention like wine, which irritated Hermione slightly. She didn't need it, and Molly was easily suckered into sympathizing. _Still_, Hermione thought lightly, _she never had an aunt to do this for her, so I suppose she'd ought to get some sometime in her life. _She shrugged to herself and then finished up her work.

When both girls had finished, they retreated to the sitting room where the rest of the group were huddled around two games—Exploding Snap and Gobstones—and talking quietly amongst themselves. Harry and Draco were talking quietly in the corner their heads bent so as to not share their discussion with the other members of the room. Morrigan excused herself and sat down next to them. "What are you discussing so diligently?" she asked in amused tones.

"Morrigan, can you tell me the exact layout of Voldemort's Keep?" Harry asked abruptly.

Morrigan winced at the name, but ignored Harry's roll of the eyes. "Yes, I can. I half grew up in it. Why?"

"Morrigan, do you know what a Horcrux is?" Harry asked her, and Draco's head snapped to look at him in horror.

"No," Morrigan said unsurely. "I've never even heard of it."

Draco had, though. "Why are you talking about that, Potter? You don't think--?"

"Voldemort has, in the past, created seven Horcruxes," Harry told him grimly.

"What's a Horcrux?" Morrigan asked.

Draco turned a pasty white, all the blood draining from his face. "You must be wrong, surely. I—the implications…"

"What's a Horcrux?"

"Malfoy, Voldemort has created seven Horcruxes and dispensed them across Europe. Dumbledore knew it, I knew it, and Slughorn, to a certain extent, knew it," Harry told him, his mouth set firmly.

"What's a Horcrux?"

"But that's impossible! Seven Horcruxes…that's…."

"What's a Horcrux?" hissed Morrigan angrily. Both boys turned to face her, Harry's expression grim and Malfoy's horrified.

"Since Malfoy is too shocked to answer you, I'll tell you. When a person murders another being, their soul is split. It is at this time that the person to whom that soul belongs may take that portion of the soul, attach it to an earthly object or creature, and thus attain immortality."

"Voldemort's immortal?" Morrigan asked with a frown, obviously misunderstanding the implications of such immortality.

"Yes, but it's far worse than that," Draco snapped impatiently. "_He split his soul_," he emphasized. "It's…so evil and horrible. A broken soul is _wrong_, an abomination against nature. Worse than that, if Potter's right, and the Dark Lord has broken his soul not once but _six times_, it's the most evil and deformed—"

His face turned a pale purple as he struggled to put into words Voldemort's precise detriment to humanity.

"Easy, Draco," Morrigan said, putting a hand on his arm. "It's all right. What I'm really concerned about now is how are you going to kill him if he's immortal?"

"You have to destroy all the other six Horcruxes, and then you can kill the bodily Voldemort," Harry told her tersely.

"And how do you go about doing that?" she asked.

"You have to hunt them down and tear them apart."

Morrigan grimaced. "That's going to be a pain in the ass."

"Yes, it is."

"You mean you've already destroyed some?" Draco asked quickly, having retrieved his ability to speak.

"Yeah. Two have been destroyed thus far. I destroyed his school diary in our second year when the Chamber was open and I saved Ginny. Dumbledore destroyed the ring of Slytherin the summer after our fifth year."

"And you're sure there are seven?" Draco asked.

"Well, five now. I'm sure about three of them, though. We can count of Voldemort's body in itself, because that's not one we have to track down and kill until the very last. We're near positive that Nagini is another, since Voldemort likes to keep her extremely close to him, and he has an extraordinary amount of control over her."

"He's a Parselmouth," Morrigan told him, shrugging. "No surprise there."

"Parseltongue doesn't give you control over snakes, it just allows you to converse with them. I would know—I _am _one."

Morrigan lifted her eyebrow but said nothing.

"And the third?" Draco asked.

"Hufflepuff Cup," Harry told him.

"Ah," Morrigan said. "That explains why you were so ecstatic when I told you."

"Precisely. But now I need a means to get into Parselart and you seem to be the only means."

Morrigan and Draco exchanged a look. "We might never get out of there, though," Morrigan said. "I can tell you where to find it and how to get in, but I can't guarantee you safety."

"Of course not. I just need to know where to find it so we can get in and out before we get killed. And I was hoping you might be able to create a distraction long enough for me to do that unnoticed."

"There has to be more to it than that, though," Draco said. "We need to plan this out in precision."

"We?" Morrigan asked.

"I'm going with," Draco told her shortly. "I'm keeping an eye on you."

Morrigan smiled at him, her heart leaping in her throat. "Okay."

"We need to meet sometime to plan it other than here, though," Harry said. "We can't do it with all these other people. If Hermione and Ron knew, they'd want to go along, and I'm not allowing them to do that."

"Okay. So keep it a secret then?" Morrigan asked.

"Yes," Harry told her.

"When are we meeting?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night sound all right to you?" Harry asked.

"Sure, but where?" Morrigan asked. "You can come to my place, since Hermione is going to be out."

"And she won't walk in on us?" Harry determined.

"Nope," Morrigan said, shaking her head.

"It's settled then. I'll see you two tomorrow."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen: Antagonizing Snape and a Snake**

Harry, Draco, and Hermione were preparing to leave, sitting in Morrigan and Hermione's kitchen. Hermione was, again, gone. They had waited until Hermione and Ron were extremely busy to plan this outing, knowing that it was probably best that they didn't know. They each ate in silence, strangely calm even though they knew it was most likely the last meal they would ever eat. Not one of the three dressed in robes, as the billowy material would hinder quick movement and (possibly) stealth. Morrigan had chosen sneakers, a t-shirt, and comfortable green corduroys. Draco himself had dressed in a green sweater and black slacks, his shoes, too, sneakers. Harry was dressed in a t-shirt and slacks, his old cross-trainers covering his feet. They were eating gyros and salad. Who knew Morrigan liked Greek food?

Finally they each finished and stood, stretching, avoiding each other's eyes. They were afraid of what they would see there—death or hopelessness—and afraid their own eyes would betray such things. "Are we ready?" Morrigan asked.

"Yeah," Harry said quietly. "Got the Potion?" he asked Draco.

The blond nodded and patted it at his waist.

"All right then," Harry said tersely. "Let's get going. What's this place called again?"

"Spinner's End," Draco told him.

Each with their faces twisted in concentration, they turned in the spot, and found themselves on a damp patch of grass in a ditch. They could see Snape's house through a few patches of trees, but most of it remained hidden, meaning they, too, were hidden. They could tell that it was a small house, perfect for a bachelor. "_This _is it?" Morrigan asked sneeringly. "I thought Snape lived in style."

"Who told you that?" Draco asked with a frown.

"Oh, Bellatrix was ranting about it one day. _And Snape gets to stay in his nice little home, safe and secure, where the Ministry can't find him_," she mimicked, contorting her face into a nasty look, perfectly imitating Bellatrix's own.

Draco smiled indulgently for a moment, and then his face resumed its tense, serious look. "All right. Don't come in until he's getting ready to attack. I can keep him going for a few minutes, but we really want to catch him off guard. And Potter, keep your mind closed."

Harry was about to reply heatedly, but Morrigan hushed him. "Your anger won't help you close off your mind," she reminded him snappishly.

Harry scowled but didn't disagree.

Draco took a deep breath, then nodded his head. Morrigan and Harry stood awkwardly together, Harry pulling the Invisibility Cloak over both. Draco stalked up the lawn with the other two following awkwardly behind him. He stopped at the door and knocked tentatively. He heard nothing until the door opened to reveal his old Potion's master.

"Draco!" he hissed, pulling him inside, angrily. Morrigan and Harry stayed outside the door, watching as Draco dropped the Extendable Ear inside the door. The door snapped closed, but Morrigan and Harry could hear everything as it happened.

Inside, Snape had turned an ugly shade of puce. "What are you doing here, Draco?" he snapped. "This is dangerous for both of us. I don't know where your allegiance lies, but frankly I don't care. What the hell are you doing here?" he repeated.

"I'm here to talk to you, old teacher," Draco said coolly, sitting at the couch. "Sit down."

Snape remained standing, fists curled at his sides, fingers clutching his wand in his right hand.

"You have betrayed the Dark Lord! You kidnapped Flaherty! What were you _thinking_?"

"I was thinking that I was doing the right thing," Draco told him, lifting an elegant eyebrow. "It's a shame you can't make the same distinction."

"You have betrayed everything your parents worked for, everything I worked for!"

Draco smiled mirthlessly. "And look where it got them," he said. "Bedpans and one lonely grave."

"They knew the price when they joined."

"My mother didn't even join, if you remember correctly. She was a housewife, not even an active member. Voldemort himself said that if you aren't active, you're not a Death Eater."

"She betrayed him!" Snape hissed.

Draco raised his eyebrow, leaning back and putting his arms up on the back of the couch comfortably. Snape eyed his right hand, which still held the wand. It was a clear warning: _I may look relaxed, but I'm ready for you. _"My mother tried to protect me, and you went along with it. So, if she betrayed the Dark Lord, you did, too."

Snape scowled deeper, his fists quivering and white from the strain of his muscles.

"Careful," Draco said softly. This game of cat and mouse, or provoke the more experienced wizard, was starting to scare him a little. He was trapped at the moment. It seemed that Snape was going to take a lot of prodding to go off, but when he did, it would be spectacularly _large_, and Draco wasn't sure if he could handle the Potions Master. "Don't break your wand," he warned.

"Of course," Snape sneered.

"So, why is it, old teacher, that you have refrained from blasting me?"

"I—" The expression on Snape's face revealed that he didn't entirely know why he hadn't killed Draco.

Draco speculated roughly that the familiarity with which Snape held Draco, held the old man's hand back, stayed his violence. Snape may not hold the same regard for Draco, but he knew the boy so well, having been his long time mentor, that it felt almost impossible to kill him. For all his betrayal, Draco had once been a good student, an apt learner. It felt like a waste and a betrayal to _himself _to kill the boy. With a mental shrug, Snape raised his wand very suddenly and yelled, "_Impedimenta_!"

Draco was just quick enough to erect a Shield Charm before the spell hit, and it bounced off the invisible shield, flying into a bookcase and knocking off a marble bust of Salazar Slytherin.

The door slammed open, Morrigan and Harry's wands were suspended in midair, and they screamed, "_Expelliarmus_!"

Snape flew off his feet, hitting the bookshelf behind him with a sickening thud. His wand flew through the air and landed smoothly in Harry's outstretched palm. Harry uncovered the Invisibility Cloak.

The ex- Potions master stood shakily and glared furiously at Harry, whose own face betrayed his hatred of the man who had almost inadvertently killed all those closest to him, while Snape completely ignored Morrigan. Harry's wand was leveled at Snape, his hand shaking. Morrigan looked at him piercingly and firmly put her hand on Harry's arm. "Don't do it, Potter," she whispered. "If you kill him, the Dark Lord _will _know." He glanced at her for a moment, and his eyes were sapped of their anger. He turned back to Snape, eyes cool now.

"Ah, so my lessons finally reached your dense mind, Potter," Snape sneered archly.

"Don't be stupid," Harry snorted. "Everything I know now, Moody taught me. He's a better teacher. Maybe it's because he's less likely to, I don't know, betray his friends? I guess that doesn't have much relevance, but every _good _teacher I've had isn't a cowardly turncoat." He smiled coolly at Snape. "_Stupefy_!" A jet of red light flew from the tip of his wand and caught Snape in the chest, causing him to fall once more.

Morrigan and Draco watched Harry for a moment. Draco, alone, knew the story of what Snape had done to Harry, and he didn't even know the whole of it. Harry had earned his moment of satisfaction, and Draco let him have it. After a moment, Draco said, "Time to go."

Harry stalked to Snape's prone figure and bent over his still form. He crinkled his nose. "The old man was getting obese."

Morrigan snorted.

Harry grabbed a lump of Snape's hair and yanked it out none too gently. Draco handed Harry the potion. Harry opened it, took a deep whiff of the still bubbling green substance, his lip curling. Fighting the urge to gag, Harry placed the two hairs in the vial, closed it once more, and shook it up furiously. He opened it again and took a huge gulp, consuming a fifth of the large vial.

Morrigan turned away, not wanting to see the hideous transformation. She could hear the bones shifting and the skin melting, though, and she squeezed her hands over her ears, but she had the mental image very prominently in her mind, unable to shake her imagination enough to rid herself of the image.

Harry felt his body changing, and suddenly knew that he shouldn't be wearing this clothing. He ran to the other room and took off his clothes, stripping down into nothing but boxers. Draco threw the extra clothing into the same room with Harry, who waited for the transformation to finish.

Draco went to check the other rooms for any extra visitors, leaving Morrigan alone with her imagination.

Morrigan shuddered and turned to view Snape. She wasn't sure how long he'd be out, so she grabbed his ankles, dragging him toward to the coat closet beside his door. He was heavy, but she managed to pull him to the closet and push him in awkwardly. She called to Draco to help her.

Draco came in and smiled wryly at her, seeing what she had been trying to do. He wordlessly went to her side and grabbed Snape's ankles. She picked up the old man's wrists, grinning wryly at their chore, and yanked him into the closet, awkwardly shifting to accommodate both her body and Snape's. With his torso inside the closet, she stepped over him, into the hallway. She shoved his legs in and propped them against the door, which she closed most of the way, and then slammed the door. She pointed her wand at the doorknob and silently locked it, looking up proudly at Draco. The boy rolled his eyes and then turned to see Harry, now Snape, in the doorway.

Harry scowled, his face uncomfortable. "It sucks being Snape. If only my parents could see me," he sighed, shaking his head.

"Oh stop being so emotional," Draco snapped amusedly. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "What's the forest called?" he asked Morrigan, who grimaced.

"It's Snakeflask Forest. We're going for the center. It's not too large."

Harry bit his lip and Morrigan almost laughed, as the image of Severus Snape using such a boyish expression was enormously comical. All three exchanged looks, and Malfoy said, "Let's go."

They turned in place, and with a _CRACK, _found themselves in the middle of a forest. They couldn't see the castle, but Morrigan knew which direction to go, gazing at the sun, which was getting low. She pointed north and said, "Let's go."

Draco squeezed his eyes and instantly popped into the form of a fox. Morrigan stared, as this was the sole circumstance she'd seen Draco in his Animagus form. His one recognizable characteristic was the unique icy blue color of his eyes. All three of them prayed that Voldemort wouldn't recognize them and instantly connect the fox to Draco.

Harry knelt and put a cord around the fox's neck, then Morrigan began to walk ahead, leading the two toward her hell.

* * *

When Morrigan could see the gates of Parselart, she twitched her head, and the three began their act.

Morrigan stood stiff, her arms at her side, hands entirely relaxed. She gazed ahead unseeingly, and Harry raised his wand to her back. She walked dully forward, seemingly no more than an Inferi. In truth, she was posing as one Imperiused. Draco strained at his leash, as if trying to get away. Harry placed a Snape-like leer on his lips, striding confidently forward with his two "prisoners."

A Death Eater at the top of the gates glared down at him. "That you, Snape?" he called.

"Yes, you dimwit," Harry called back. "I've two prisoners, one that the Dark Lord will find particularly interesting."

The Death Eater raised a pair of Omnioculars, looking down at the two prisoners, and then gasped audibly. "If that isn't—why, it's Flaherty!" He crowed exultantly. "Bellatrix is going to be _so _pleased at this choice bit of news."

"You'll let us in?" Harry asked icily, Snape's voice cutting the air.

"Oh, yeah," the Death Eater said absentmindedly. He pushed a button, and metal gates rose immediately. Harry walked confidently behind Morrigan, who was really the leader. She led him through the gates and into the courtyard, where every person there stared at them silently, mouths agape. Some whispered amongst themselves, forgetting themselves.

Morrigan had to put a great deal of effort into not allowing her eyes to flash or her face to color. She approached the green sparkling shield before the doors of the castle and Harry called, "_Veritamortas_," just as Morrigan had taught him. The green shield evaporated immediately, and they entered the castle, leaving a curious audience behind. Before the Great Hall, a masked Death Eater saw them and turned to enter the Great Hall to alert the Dark Lord.

They waited for a moment and then the Death Eater returned, nodding once, and resumed his position by the entrance.

The three entered the room cautiously, eyes searching. They could see Voldemort on his cold throne, waiting patiently. All three looked elsewhere. Morrigan's eyes gazed forward, unfocused. Harry's black eyes stared at the ground, a gesture of respect, while Draco still struggled against his leash.

They stopped at the foot of the throne and waited for Voldemort to speak.

"What have you found here, Severus?" Voldemort asked quietly, his eyes boring into Morrigan's vacant ones.

"Our most popular traitor," Harry said, bowing low.

"I must say, this time you have truly done good work. Where, pray tell, did you find her?"

"She was sneaking around near my Spinner's End. I suppose she was trying to help the Order, but I didn't ask. I incarcerated her and brought her to you to be broken."

"And the fox?"

"An Auror. Fervius Knockwood."

"I'm not interested in unimportant Aurors. Dispose of him and leave me." Draco yelped dramatically, and Voldemort laughed quietly at the animal's fear. "Make it slow, Severus," he commanded cruelly, his smile wide and terrifying.

Harry bowed his head respectfully, and then said, "_Finite Incantatem_."

Morrigan collapsed, a part of her (the part that wasn't going mad with fear) enjoying the drama.

Harry turned to leave, dragging Draco behind him.

Voldemort waited until they were out of the room and then turned his gaze upon Morrigan.

"Welcome home, my prodigal daughter…"

* * *

Harry and Draco raced through the halls, following Morrigan's instructions. "Left, right, right, portrait of Merlin, four more rights, and a left at the statue of Barnabas the Gold," Harry breathed under his breath, reciting the instructions carefully.

He slid to a stop in front of the library entrance, thanking every deity he'd heard of that they'd not seen a soul.

He bent to catch his breath, momentarily. "Snape is really out of shape," he breathed.

With a pop, Draco became human once again. He pulled his wand out of his pocket, and said, "With a belly that size, was there ever any doubt?"

Harry grinned at him, forgetting his past animosity. "Are we going to do this?" he said.

Draco shrugged indifferently. "We will or we won't, fate will decide."

Harry rolled his eyes and stepped into the library. The first thing he noticed, from the inside, was the vastness. It had to be filled with hundreds of shelves. He wondered at the size, when he'd thought it had looked so small from the outside. It was dark inside, smelling of old parchment and books. The silence was deafening, and the air was thick with dust and old plant cells from the tree derivatives.

Harry coughed, waving his hand over his face. "Ugh, this place is perfect for Voldemort," he whispered. He set off down the far wall, searching for the case holding the cup. Draco followed close behind him, wand at the ready. They must have walked a hundred feet when Harry stopped abruptly and stepped out into an open space. In the very center of the room stood a glass case, inside of which sat the very cup Harry had seen inside Dumbledore's memory three years ago.

He looked around then waved his wand over the empty space. "_Specialis Revelio_," he whispered. Nothing happened. With a shrug, he stepped forward, and nothing happened. He stepped forward toward the glass case, inching slowly toward it with caution. He was a step away from it when he heard a sudden hiss and Draco shouted at Harry, "Potter, watch out!"

Harry jumped four feet back, precisely as an enormous snake dropped from the ceiling, hissing and landing with a thud in the place Harry had been only moments before. With a grim smile, Harry drew a silver knife from a sheath at his side, brandishing it like a sword. "_Impedimenta_!"

The spell bounced off the shiny scales of the large green snake, and suddenly, it lunged at Harry, who pointed the knife at the open jaws of the snake. The snake pulled out of the way to avoid being stabbed by the knife, and Harry jumped over it, then turned and plunged the knife into its back.

It hissed, but was not stopped by its wound. Harry realized he would have to cut its head off to destroy it. "Malfoy, hold its head!" he cried, and Draco looked at him like he was insane.

Draco did as he was ordered, though, and lunged at the unsuspecting snake. He grabbed the head and slammed it forcefully to the ground, muscles quivering as it strained against his hand, whipping its body to shake him lose. "Now, Potter," he said through gritted teeth, and Harry sliced the knife through the snake's neck, and the head came off. The body continued to whip violently as the body got the message it had to shut down. It took two or three minutes, but Harry and Draco couldn't wait for that.

Harry stood up, his face grim. "Well, Nagini's done. One less Horcrux. I wasn't sure if we'd be able to get her this run."

"Yeah, let's get this," Draco said, turning to the case. Harry stopped him with his hand.

"Let me do it. If we need to get out of here, you'll be able to get Morrigan better than me, and it's very likely that I might be seriously injured by this."

Draco nodded and stepped aside, allowing Harry to press his palm experimentally to the glass. Nothing happened.

With relief, Harry said, "I bet Voldemort thought no one would be able to get in here _and _get through Nagini."

Draco nodded agreeably and watched Harry lift the case off its platform.

Harry pointed his wand at the cup and cried, "_Finite Immortatus_!"

The cup glowed a very bright green, and then suddenly exploded, a small mushroom cloud erupting on the platform. Abruptly, the smoked was all sucked into a source—the unharmed Cup of Helga Hufflepuff. Harry grabbed the cup, and then said, "Now we need to go help Morrigan."

Draco turned and ran, Harry following behind closely, both hoping it wasn't too late to save her.

*** * ***

"So, Morrigan, you thought you could betray me?" Voldemort asked very softly, staring her down.

She jumped to her feet immediately and stared at him, apparently nonplussed. She was actually terrified and was wondering how she was managing to control her bowels.

She cocked her head to the side and said, "You know, it was almost remarkable how it happened. Would you like to hear about it?" she asked, her voice friendly. _This is it_, she thought. _My best performance, my last escapade across the venturous unknown called complete bullshit…_

"By all means," Voldemort laughed. "I would love to hear your story, child," he said indulgently, gazing at her amusedly. Ignoring this look, which she knew was meant to scare her, she began.

"You will be happy to know that I performed perfectly," she said, putting her hands behind her back, and for a moment, Voldemort thought she looked like a school child, sharing a story with her favorite teacher. He knew, though, that he was no longer her favorite teacher, that she had walked into Dumbledore's trap. It had made him furious when he had heard from his spies that she had been seen with a Mudblood in Diagon Alley, Potter's friend, no less, because he had realized that even from the grave, Dumbledore's hand reached out with its goodness and love. Now he felt a dull flicker of anger, and then passed over the emotion completely.

"I was by all means your creature. They had to force Veritaserum down my throat to get me to reveal anything, and even surrounded by their hateful love toward each other, I remained true. I spoke your title with reverence, spoke your teachings with such conviction, and they hated me. They all did. They wanted to kill me. With a few words, I made that Granger girl flee the kitchen with her own good intentions shoved up her ass so far it was astonishing that she made it up the stairs of my prison."

Voldemort smirked. Her storytelling was such that he could imagine that she still had that sort of faith in him. She spoke as if she were still that girl which had hated with utter sincerity every person she knew, save him.

"And then," she continued, "Draco punished me. He told me I didn't deserve to live, monster that I was. Oh! The things he called me," she laughed. "It was the first time I'd wept since childhood, since I'd lost my soul." She smiled bitterly. "And the next time he visited me, I broke and told him my story from the beginning. I wanted to show him that I wasn't all those things he believed me to be. Even then, I was attached to him. He was so cool, so smooth. I admired him in spite of myself. He was a rival, to be sure, and he had betrayed me to those I hated most, but still, he was an interesting figure, and it was difficult to allow him to believe me some sort of hideous monster."

"Oh, my darling, you are," Voldemort laughed, clapping his hands. She glared ferociously at him, and he returned the glare. He raised his wand and pointed it at her. "_Crucio_!"

Morrigan dropped to the marble floor and convulsed, pulling on her hair. _I will not scream, I will not scream, I will not scream_. And then it stopped.

"Continue," Voldemort told her, his voice dangerous.

Morrigan paused for a moment, her face on the cool ground. Then, with a grunt, she pushed herself into a stand. The pain was fading slowly, and she could stand. "And then I asked him if I could spend Christmas with him. He agreed, as long as I behaved myself. I was introduced to Christmas, and for the first time, someone gave me a gift—not because I had done something they wanted me to do it, but because they genuinely wished me happiness, whether I deserved it or not. In turn, I gifted a scroll upon both of them—a story for Hermione and everything you'd ever taught me, summarized, to Draco. I still believed in you, even though they had shown me kindness that you are incapable of. I didn't mean that spitefully," she added quickly, not wanting to be tortured again. Voldemort nodded his head to continue, so she did so.

"They started to teach me, then. They told me truths that I had never known, that I didn't know existed. I barely resisted after awhile. I was intrigued. What was the other side thinking? Could there be a better life? One with more of a point? And I learned. Suddenly I realized that I was actually feeling _happiness_. I had always scoffed at that word, because I was unable to understand, not having felt it before. Maybe contentedness, but not happiness. And I liked it. As I like Hermione. She was so kind, so smart. How could she be inferior to me? She treated me well, too, even when I thought all her kind were cruel and stupid. But she proved me wrong. She proved _you_ wrong," she added bravely. Voldemort's eyes smoldered, but he allowed her to continue.

"Loyalty and trust mean something!" she cried, and started to pace, hands behind her back. "Draco…he helped me, he taught me to trust. He made me ask myself questions that I had been too scared, or too ignorant, to ask before. The most important question…it wasn't even a question! 'The question is not why the Dark Lord trusts you, but why you trust him.' I remembered it, and when it finally made sense to me, I could honestly ask myself that question—and I could not honestly conceive an answer. Why _would _I trust you? Why hadn't I asked that question before? _Because that's what you teach us to think_. It's not relevant to the powerless why they trust those holding the power.

"That's what the Order is all about! Trusting without power, without incentive guiding their words. It's not about love, or any of the other things you mock them for. And _that _is why good temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant."

"You really believe that, do you?" Voldemort asked her skeptically.

"Yes, _Tom_, I do," she sneered. "I am prepared to die before you for this idea that I believe in, and right before that green light hits me and kills me, I will still consider myself lucky than all of your other followers that followed until the end without punishment, because I lived truthfully for any amount of time."

Voldemort began to chuckle. "You're daft. You really believe in all this love nonsense, don't you?"

Morrigan smiled and nodded her head slowly, knowing her doom was coming.

"You forget, Morrigan, the other side of love: Love without betrayal is not love but infatuation. Where are your friends? The ones that you so dearly love?"

Morrigan bit her lip. She knew Harry and Draco should be coming soon, but it might be too late.

"Yes, my dear, you are unaided in my keep with none of your precious loved ones. You are going to die alone, and for what? Some abstract concept?" He tsked. "You should know better than that. I see that I failed in teaching you, and I am not a man that likes to fail."

Before she could stop herself, Morrigan muttered, "You're not a man at all." Horrified, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Voldemort simply smiled. "You are right, my dear, I'm not a man."

"Well," Morrigan said slowly, "Not mentally. But even a fractured soul isn't enough to annul the simple fact that you are, in fact, human. You did have a mother and a father."

Voldemort stood, his face furious. "Who told you?" he roared, striding forward and grabbing her by the front of her t-shirt. The cold touch that Morrigan had once craved like sweet life now felt horrid to her, and she flinched. "Who told you about H-h—" His anger left Voldemort unable to phrase the word.

"Harry Potter," she said with a smirk. "He's like my best friend," she said. Why on _earth _was she provoking the madman? It was insane, she didn't know where these words were coming from.

"Is he?!" Voldemort screamed in her face. His breath reeked, the stench that of an entirely carnivorous animal's breath.

Morrigan turned her head.

"Let's play a game, shall we?" Voldemort asked her, his voice ominously quiet. He took his wand from her hand and threw it.

"Go get it," he whispered and let go of Morrigan. She stared at him in horror, unsure of what to do, frozen to the spot.

"Go get it," he said, brandishing his wand threateningly. She paled considerably, and knew that it was almost over.

She turned and began running. When she was a foot from her wand, it flew back, closer to Voldemort. She raced after it, feeling stupid and pained at such an awful pre-death ritual. So it went, each time she chased after her wand, it would flick out of the way and she would run for it again, huffing and puffing tiredly. She knew if she stopped, he would kill her, so she kept running, her fear giving her strength.

Soon he began tossing curses at her, laughing at his own cleverness and as she dodged. Sometimes she managed to avoid the curse and it would hit the granite, cracking the floor. Usually, however, she was cursed, and would drop to the ground, shivering, forcing herself not to scream in pain. He would stop after twenty seconds, and the chase would resume. An idea passed through her tired mind, and she decided that she was going to die soon, anyway, and if it didn't work, it didn't make a difference.

"Your mother was a whore!" she screamed. "She needed some crummy Muggle to feel good about herself, and even then it wasn't enough. He left her. I don't know why, but he did. And then she _died_, because she didn't have any desire to live without the stupid Muggle." This was all information Draco had revealed to her at some point, but she didn't know the full story. It was enough, though, and Voldemort froze briefly.

In that crucial moment, Morrigan leapt and grabbed her wand, pointing it at Voldemort and screaming, "_LEGILIMENS!_"

His mind opened up to her like a flower, and she instantaneously saw those memories Voldemort thought of most frequently. Killing Lily Potter, who shielded her screaming son. Creating the Horcruxes, his face alive. Opening the Chamber of Secrets to kill the school Mudbloods. All of it…it was all devoid of love. Without that factor…_she understood what love was_. This one individual had been so devoid of love his entire life, his life had been built around this empty factor, and he had defined love so clearly with his life, becoming an unintentional catalyst for the one feeling he could not comprehend, could not himself feel.

It all happened so quickly, no more than five seconds, and then Morrigan was being thrown forcibly from Voldemort's mind, her body also moving backwards across the floor. With an angry, muffled sound, Voldemort screamed, "_CRUCIO_!" The pain was so intense, Morrigan hadn't known it could be this bad. Apparently he had been taking it easy on her all those other times. Morrigan tried not to scream, but she broke in three seconds, her voice piercing the air satisfactorily. She clawed at her face, her scalp, her neck. She pounded the floor, scratching her nails across the marble with such force that they ripped off. She could feel the warmth gushing across her hands, and as she pawed at her face, her lips, her cheeks. She could smell it, taste it, feel it. If only it would stop, if only she could stop…this was so terrible. Maybe she should retreat, should go away. Her body wouldn't have to hurt without the mind. She could go away, and she wouldn't be able to feel the unbearable pain. Yes, that would be nice. She could just retreat into her mind…

The pain evaporated slowly, and she smiled mentally. It had worked. She was going away, never to worry about the infinite pain anymore…she could see Draco there, and he could do anything she wanted him to. He would hold her hand, and he would never, ever leave her. She would always be happy; she would never have to worry about anything bad anymore….

"Morrigan," said a voice urgently, tugging at her. She could see Draco leaning over her, and she smiled weakly.

"Draco," she whispered. "It worked, and you're right here with me. I knew it would work, it had to work," she muttered dreamily. She reached a hand up to touch his face and saw that they were raw and bloody. "That can't be right," she muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her fingers to be whole and beautiful again. She opened her eyes again saw that her hands were still bloodied.

"Morrigan, we have to go," Draco told her. There were the unmistakable sounds of battle behind her, but she wasn't really paying attention. She rolled her eyes into the back of her head dreamily, and Draco growled in frustration. He grabbed her around the waist and threw her over his shoulder.

"_Crucio_!" he screamed, pointing at Voldemort, who was battling with Harry. The tall man stopped momentarily, and Harry, the Polyjuice Potion having worn off, retreated, adding his own Cruciatus Curse to impede Voldemort against following them.

He grimaced at Morrigan's haggard appearance. She was obviously delirious, and he felt so guilty for what their lateness had done to her. They ran out the door and finally dared to turn and run out the gates. Harry picked up the oversize robes and ran behind them. In the courtyard, people stared at them in surprise, forgetting that Harry Potter was _not _supposed to be there and that the Dark Lord would give much to have him. One Death Eater caught his head and turned to follow them. Morrigan saw him, and she giggled, pointing her wand at him, "St—st—_Stupefy_!" she shrieked, laughing. He was caught between the eyes and fell to the ground.

Draco cringed at the sound of her maniacal laughter, hoping it wasn't too late, that she wouldn't be joining his father….

They came to the gates, where three Death Eaters blocked their way—Rodolphus, Avery, and Amycus. They sneered at the three laughingly. "Think you're getting out of here alive?" Rodolphus asked, laughing with the other two goons.

"Yes, I think we are," Draco snapped. "_Impedimenta_!" he bellowed, putting all his mental power into it. Rodolphus hit the gate and dropped painfully to the dirt. Harry took Amycus out and now Avery was left, sending curses at them, both erecting and reconstructing every Shield Charm for every curse. Finally, when Avery was pointing his wand at Draco, being the weakest with Morrigan on his back, Harry caught him in the face with an Impediment Jinx. Draco pointed his wand at the gates, which rose immediately, and the two boys retreated into the dark forest, Apparating to their own houses immediately.

* * *

The moment he appeared in his house, Draco leapt up the stairs two at a time to drop Morrigan on his bed. He sprinted to the next room, where a cabinet with several antidotes and medicines sat in a cabinet, labeled clearly on the sides of their vials.

He found one for pain, and another for quick healing. He ran back into his bedroom, where Morrigan was babbling incoherently. "Oh god," he said aloud, "Please stay with me, Morrigan."

She hiccupped loudly, and he grimaced, then picked her up, taking her to the bathroom, starting the bath. Once it had filled with warm water, he pulled her shoes and pants off, dropping her in, t-shirt and undergarments still on. She gasped in shock, looking around. Draco began to wash her hands, trying not to cringe at her fingers. She was a mess. He washed her face thoroughly.

After he finished, he went back into the bedroom to get a set of light robes for Morrigan to wear. He got her out of the tub, drying her off and putting the clothes on. She was shivering and holding her hands aloft, muttering about them hurting. "I know, I know," he said soothingly. "You'll be all right." He led her by the wrist to the bed where he forced her to lay down and began applying the potions.

She sat still for him, allowing him to help her. He went back into his storeroom and brought back a Sleeping Draught and forced her to drink it. He watched her fall asleep, watched her worriedly.

* * *

Morrigan slept for two days, her body recovering and her mind recovering. She woke abruptly one afternoon, and stood shakily, rubbing her eyes with the back of her palm. She looked down at her hand in shock at the bandages, which covered every fingertip and making each finger look like a q-tip; she then noticed she had no idea where she was. She opened the door and walked out into the corridor, looking down at the foreign robes. The sun shone through a window at the end of the hallway, but she ignored it in favor of descending to the downstairs, which she instantly recognized.

She found Draco in his sitting room and stood in the doorway, looking down at the young man that had saved her.

"Hi, Draco," she said tiredly.

Draco looked up at her and smiled, his face stretched with weariness. "Hello, Morrigan. How are you feeling, Morrigan?" he asked her.

"I'm fine. What happened?" she asked, confused.

"You don't remember?" He frowned.

"No, well, not completely. Bits and flashes…I saw your face a bit, but otherwise I think I was pretty far gone."

"Yes, I thought you might be joining my father at St. Mungo's," he admitted. "I'm glad that's not the case."

"Just barely," she said foggily. "I don't think I was totally with it for some time. It's like a gap in my memories." She shook her head forcefully.

"You'll be able to go home tonight if you want to," Draco sighed.

"Thanks, Draco," Morrigan smiled. "Again."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

"From the back of the big brown eyes

I knew you'd be gone as soon as you could

And I hoped you would

We could see that you weren't yourself

And the lines on your face

Did tell us

Just as well

You'd never be yourself

Again

Saw you last night

Dance by the light

Of the moon

Stars in your eyes

Free from the life

That you knew…"

_Magic _by _Ben Folds Five _(_The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner_)

**Chapter Fifteen: And Then Harry Left**

Draco took Morrigan home that night to a very worried Hermione. When they Apparated into the kitchen, Hermione jumped about two feet and screamed piercingly. "Relax," Draco ordered, and Hermione put a hand over her heart.

"That was _not_—Morrigan, what happened to your fingers?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"They—" Morrigan turned to look at Draco, who nodded. "Well, we went to Parselart."

Hermione's eyes narrowed perceptively. "You-Know-Who's keep?" she asked, her mouth twisting angrily.

Morrigan nodded guiltily.

"Why did you do that!" she shrieked at the two of them. "You could have _died_, you could have disappeared for the rest of my life, and I would never have been able to say good-bye! How dare you! What were you doing?" She was breathing angrily, and she sat down at the table. Morrigan, sat, too, and reached forward to put her hands on Hermione's, but pulled them back, looking at her unhealed fingers.

"Well, Harry needed to get that cup—"

"Harry did not go with you!" Hermione gasped, looking between the guilt-ridden faces of Draco and Morrigan.

"He did," Draco told her glumly. "We destroyed two Horcruxes, though!" he said brightly. Hermione's scowl chased the cheerful look off his face.

"Draco, I care more about you three living than Voldemort dying. And it seems that Morrigan didn't escape unscathed."

"She—Morrigan, do you want to tell her?" Draco asked Morrigan softly. Morrigan looked at the table, and Hermione sought her eyes, which had taken on a dull, haunted look. Morrigan nodded.

"Hermione, I really don't know if you've ever been a victim of the Cruciatus," she began, and both Draco and Hermione winced. Hermione had, and both of them knew by whom. "The Dark Lord wanted to punish me, for my defiant words, for my betrayal, for everything, I suppose, and I…well, I have to say that I didn't know what I was doing. I only knew the pain, and I was clawing at everything, trying to get away…"

Hermione grimaced, a picture of Morrigan clawing at a dark stone floor erupting in her mind.

"I healed her, Hermione. It's all right now," Draco reassured her, putting a hand on her own.

Hermione flinched at his touch. "I can't take this right now. I'll…go." She stood and went to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Morrigan and Draco exchanged worried looks. "I was the one that nearly went insane," Morrigan snorted, trying to help the situation with some brief levity.

"Morrigan, the war has been more painful for Hermione than for you," Draco said sharply, standing. "A little compassion on your part would be greatly appreciated by everyone." He left, walking to Hermione's bedroom, Morrigan staring after him in shock.

* * *

"Hermione," Draco whispered into the door. "Let me in, please."

The door opened slowly, revealing a grief-stricken Hermione. Draco entered the room cautiously, keeping his eyes on Hermione and walking with a deliberate strength to the bed, where Hermione sat, hands under her legs. He sat next to her, staring down at the floor.

"Hermione," he said lowly, "we really are very sorry. We didn't mean to scare you. The plan didn't work quite as well on Morrigan's end."

Hermione sniffled. "A bit of warning would have been nice."

"Would you have let us go alone if we'd told you?" he asked her.

"No," she mumbled. "But if you'd died!" she whimpered. "How could I live with myself?"

"You would have had Ronald and Ginevra," he told her sternly. "They're your best friends, and you should let them _be _your best friends."

"Sometimes I don't _want _them to be my best friends," she whispered quietly, as if to herself. "Sometimes, I think I'd rather have you and Morrigan be my best friends."

"You barely know me!" Draco exclaimed, turning abruptly to look at her in shock. "Hermione, there are so many things about me that you could hardly understand, that you don't _want _to understand! I should be _no one's _best friend."

"That's not true!" Hermione snapped, looking up at him angrily. She wiped her tears with her palm, reminding Draco of a surly child. "The way you try to protect me and Morrigan, how you seem to l-love us." She choked on the word "love," as if she had never voiced it before. "It's all indicative."

"Weasley is far better suited!" Draco hissed at her, his eyes fiery. "He knows _primarily _how to love. He's always been there for you—honor that!"

"Ron is so _consistent_," Hermione cried, her voice hinting at petulance.

"Hermione, you can't run to me because you're bored with Ron!" Draco snapped. "Now, I can comfort you, or you can justify why you're ultimately attracted to me. But I'm not going to allow you to walk away from your best friends because I'm more interesting—_at the moment_," he emphasized. "I'm your friend, not your entertainment."

Hermione looked as if she'd been slapped. Draco was abashed at his words. The girl began to cry again, and he put his arms around her, pulling her closer to his chest. "Shh," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I never know the right thing to say."

He held Hermione close as she sobbed quietly into his chest. He stroked her hair and pressed his mouth to the top of her head, internally wincing at his own weakness. _Remember Morrigan_, a little voice said, but he disregarded it entirely. Hermione's sobbing soon halted to a few snuffles. She clung to him as to a rock for safe harbor and he allowed it. He might not have let it go this far, but she was so close, and he could smell her, that faint scent of orchids and roses.

Hermione pulled away and looked at him for a moment. "Thanks, Draco."

* * *

"Hermione, I have to say that this idea was brilliant. You say Muggles do this all the time?"

"Yup."

Morrigan and Hermione were stretched out on beach chairs in the middle of the sitting room, watching "The Big Tease." They were both wearing robes and had their hair up in towels. Their faces were slathered in green gunk; their fingernails (Morrigan's fully healed) were painted blue, their toenails green; between them was a bowl of truffles and two tall glasses of sherry.

"Well, I think it's fabulous. We should do this about once a week. It'd add about fifty years to our life."

"Surely it can't be _that _stimulating," Hermione sniffed.

"I bet it is," Morrigan countered. "I can _feel _the worry lines going away."

"Morrigan, you're nineteen. You don't _have _any worry lines."

"Sure I do."

"No you don't." Morrigan stuck out a tongue at Hermione who rolled her eyes. "That's terribly mature of you," Hermione snorted.

"Hey," Morrigan protested, stuffing a truffle into her mouth, "why are you in such a hurry to grow up?"

"You're right, this sherry should go out the window."

Morrigan snatched both glasses and held them away from Hermione with utmost care. "You will not!"

Hermione turned awkwardly (the robe was rather large) and grinned, stretching the green gunk. "Now hand that over, I want some."

Morrigan, grumbling, passed one of the glasses to Hermione, who then gulped it happily. "That is some pretty good stuff."

"Told you," Morrigan said smugly. "From the table of Daisy Parkinson."

"The _Parkinsons _suggested it?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I used to eat with them all the time," Morrigan said with a frown. "Daisy _insisted _that Pansy and I be friends, because I was the perfect companion for her. _She hangs around with men far too often!_" she mimicked bossily. "I almost felt bad for the girl. Except she _was _a bit…well, you know, I imagine. You went to school with her."

Hermione made a face. "Yeah, I know." Morrigan laughed at the distasteful expression on Hermione's face.

Something tapped on the window, and Morrigan turned to see Hedwig. She sprang to race Hermione to the window. Hermione half-heartedly followed, then sat back down when Morrigan retrieved the letter from the owl's talon. "It's addressed to us both," Morrigan said loudly, then opened it to read it.

"_Morrigan and Hermione—_

"_We're planning a meeting for the Order tomorrow night at Headquarters. Supper will be included. I'll be at your place tomorrow around six to pick you up._

"_Harry"_

"Hmph," Morrigan grunted. "Well then, cancel plans for tomorrow, we're going to Headquarters."

"I wonder why," Hermione said with a frown.

Morrigan shrugged. "We'll soon find out, won't we?"

* * *

"You're probably all wondering why we called this meeting," Harry said to the present members of the Order. They were all assembled in the dining room of Grimmauld Place, each wearing identical disgruntled expressions, all irritated by the short notice.

Gathered were the Weasleys (minus Charlie), Tonks, Remus, Moody, Hermione, Morrigan, Draco, Shacklebolt, and Doge.

"I have recently participated in, successfully, a covert operation in Parselart with Draco and Morrigan. We got in and got out safely, but not without notice."

"And _what_, pray tell, were you doing?" Lupin asked, rather sharply, his expression not, as customary, mild.

"There was something that needed to be destroyed," Harry said carefully the Order members. "It was absolutely necessary, in order to win the war with as few casualties as possible. You do want that, right?" Harry asked stridently.

"What precisely did you destroy?" Arthur asked, his expression the most serene one in the room.

"A certain object that helps Voldemort. I'm afraid I can't give you too many details. Dumbledore charged me to find it and destroy it, and that's what I've done. That has to be enough for you for now."

Arthur nodded peaceably. Harry continued. "The news is that now, I must leave."

The entire room erupted.

Harry hushed them all with a stern look. "See here, I _have _to go. You can manage without me, really. I _need _to go abroad and find the rest of Voldemort's…artifacts. If I don't, this war will go on forever and people will just keep dying. I'm sorry I can't tell you why; and I'm not going alone."

Harry's eyes rested on Ron and Hermione, sitting next to each other. "Ron, Hermione, it's time."

Molly put a hand over her mouth. "Surely, Harry—"

"Mrs. Weasley, I'm sorry, we decided long ago that we were going to do this together. It's Ron and Hermione's decision if they don't want to go. But the original plan stays in place. I want them to come with me."

"We'll come," Hermione said firmly, taking Ron's hand in hers. Draco's eyes rested on their entwined hands, and he felt a surge of jealousy.

"Yeah, we're coming with," Ron told him determinedly. "Just say when."

"I was hoping…tomorrow."

Hermione looked taken aback. "That's rather…sudden," she said carefully.

"Sorry, Hermione, but I want to surprise the Death Eaters just as much as I surprised you all. Information always leaks out, and the moment Voldemort finds out that I've gone, he's going to chase us. I can't risk him catching us. He'll try to change the location of the objects we're looking for, and since he knows where they are, it won't take much to get ahead of us. I wouldn't be surprised if he already moved them," he added grimly.

The atmosphere was heavy. Morrigan watched Hermione with curiosity. She was going off with her friends, but her air was so determined, so deliberate, Morrigan wondered if she was just putting this on. Why didn't she really want to leave? Harry and Ron had been her best friends since she was eleven-years-old, and now she didn't want to be with them in this life-and-death situation, the quarters close.

"I think that's all," Harry said, sitting down. "Anything you'd like to add?"

No one knew enough to add anything, and those that did kept their mouths firmly closed.

"Meeting adjourned," Harry said quietly, then stood and left. The room emptied. Morrigan left to find Harry and talk to him, maybe give him suggestions, even though Harry knew better than Morrigan where to look for the Horcruxes. Draco and Hermione were left, staring down at their hands. Hermione's feeling of torment was threatening to take her over completely and develop into full-blown hysteria.

"I can't believe I'm leaving tomorrow," she said, her voice strangely strangled.

"Me neither," Draco said quietly, even though this wasn't entirely true. It was a space filler…useless but relevant, so he'd used it. "Sorry, that's a stupid thing to say."

"It's okay," Hermione sighed. "I just don't want to go."

"Of course you do," Draco tried to tell her, but it came out weak and halfhearted.

"No, I don't. I should, but I don't." Her voice seemed dead, emotionless.

Draco finally met her eyes, and was stunned by what he saw there. It was the same longing he knew he'd been feeling. Was it love? Was it lust? Both stood immediately and within a mere second closed the bridge between them, careless of who saw them. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her head in his chest. "It was too short," she whispered. She didn't have to specify what she was talking about. Their time together had been brief and strange. Even together was a foreign word in their relationship. They hadn't ever been "together." Just…connected in some bizarre way.

"One last…" Hermione breathed, looking up, and pressed her lips firmly against Draco's. She always wanted to be doing this. It was different every time, so unlike Ron. Draco wasn't steady or constant, but the fire he ignited in her was too significant to ignore any longer. Draco's arms were on her back, large against her tiny waist and making her feel so delicate. Her arms were around his neck, twisting in the hem of his robes.

They were so caught up in their passion that they didn't see the door open, and Ron entered. He gazed at them in shock, waiting a moment for them to notice him, but they didn't, and so he backed out, horrified, from the room, his face white with shock. He turned around quickly and ran into Morrigan, who looked at him with such worry that she grabbed his hand and dragged him to the familiar, and empty, drawing room. She sat him down and looked him carefully in the face. "What happened, Ron?" she asked him softly, putting a warm hand on his.

It was a mark of how much the Valentine's Day episode had changed his view on Morrigan that Ron opened his mouth and spilled the following words: "I just saw Hermione and Malfoy…in the dining room…. They were k-kissing."

Morrigan turned paper white, but she composed her features with that practiced expressionless mask she'd used so many times to display indifference. "Ron, I know it seems awful, but they're very scared and are probably reaching out to each other for comfort in…unusual ways."

"But why wouldn't she just…come to me?" Ron whispered unhappily.

"Hermione and Draco developed a relationship over those many months that's probably quite unique to your relationship with Hermione. She'll always love you, because you're the constant in her life. She can depend on you. Draco is just…just a phase," Morrigan finished lamely.

Ron allowed her to comfort him more until Ginny entered the room and Morrigan made herself scarce.

* * *

"Draco, I've been thinking for awhile about what's going on," Hermione told him as they sat at the table, talking quietly. "And we can't just pretend this isn't happening anymore. Every damn time Ron puts his arm around my waist, I think of you. I think we should confront this before I leave, because if anything happens, we should have at least acknowledged this." She gazed at him anxiously, waiting for his response.

"I like you a lot, Hermione, and I think you're right. This is something so much more than we've given it credit for."

Hermione smiled at him glumly. "Then what is it? The stage before love? Is it already love?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted. "I think if we go any further with it, though, it might end up that way, and do you really want to deal with it?"

"Deal with it?" Hermione repeated it, stricken. "You make it sound like a chore or something."

"It's not that," Draco sighed exasperatedly. "You do truly love Ronald, there's no way you don't. And you probably shouldn't encourage this. You can't have both of us. Eventually you'll have to pick, and one of us is going to be hurt. If you pick Weasley now, the pain'll be minimal. If you pick when we're in the middle of this…affair, one of us might end up really damaged."

"But how can I make that decision now?" Hermione asked desperately.

Draco put a firm hand on hers. "Decide when you come back."

"But—" Hermione protested.

"Notice that I said _when_," he told her firmly. "Because you _will_ come back, and I'll be waiting to hear what you have to say."

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. No one really wanted to say anything, because it might break the silence, and the silence was far better than the tears that might come. Anything but the tears. Morrigan and Ron were probably the quietest, eating their food without looking up. Ron finished first, kissed his mother on the cheek, and said good-bye to everyone quite coolly.

Morrigan followed soon after.

Draco saw the expression on her face and recognized it immediately. It was the cold detachment she so frequently used to hide her most passionate feelings. She cleared her plate and left mutely. Draco watched her leave, his insides turning cold. Something was very wrong with Morrigan. He exchanged a look with Hermione, then stood and took his unfinished plate to the kitchen. Morrigan brushed past him in the doorway and he hurried to the counter, where he sat the plate down, and then raced to catch up with her. She was walking out the door, her strides furious. He followed her, ignoring his light cloak by the exit. He followed her, and by the slumped shoulders and the manner with which she walked, he could tell she'd let down her guard.

He ran to catch up with her and came up beside her. She wasn't surprised that he had followed her.

"What do you want?" she asked flatly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"Nothing. Why would you think something's wrong?" she asked, coming to a stop in the center of the street.

"Because, something's obviously wrong."

She seethed. "I don't need to justify myself to you," she snarled angrily, looking down at her feet and anywhere else but him.

"Come one, Morrigan, what's wrong?" he asked her softly.

"You're what's wrong!" she hissed quite suddenly, taking him by surprise.

"Me? What did I do?" he asked incredulously.

"Don't you get it, Draco?" she asked, but she gazed at his face disappointedly. "Of course not," she continued sadly. "You never have, you never will. I just…can't trust you to hold the same regard for me as I you. I'm so pathetic!" she burst, laughing humorlessly. "So pathetic," she muttered to herself. She turned away and walked to the cover of a few trees in the small park, then, watching him, Apparated.

Morrigan waited in her room, the door open, when she arrived home, but Draco didn't follow her. _He really _doesn't_ care. He broke his promise_, she accused anxiously, but her mind was screaming in anguish at herself.

_I'm not good enough for him. I've always been good enough for _someone_, but not him. I'm not good enough for him._

Hermione was the obvious choice between the two, of course. She was smart and charming. She was kind, not nearly as malicious as Morrigan was. She'd never chosen the wrong side or said the wrong thing. No, Hermione was smarter and better for Draco. Girls such as Hermione…well, they could from pick both sides of the spectrum of men. She could choose dark Draco or sweet Ron. It wasn't Hermione's fault. She was just good enough for anyone, and better than many.

_Better than me,_ Morrigan thought bitterly, and pondering this, cried herself to sleep.

* * *

Hermione left early the next morning, waking Morrigan to say good-bye. Morrigan was sluggish and seemed depressed, even though she tried to cover this up for Hermione's benefit. Morrigan hugged Hermione stiffly and wished her luck. "Try not to die, roomie," she said, smiling sadly.

"I'll try," Hermione said, smiling back. "Miss you already."

"Me, too," Morrigan lied, even though she couldn't wait to see Hermione gone. She felt terrible for feeling this, but just seeing Hermione's radiant, kind face was sending waves of agony coursing through her body.

"G'bye," Hermione murmured, touching Morrigan's hand briefly, and then picked her bags up and disappeared into the ether.

Morrigan watched the empty spot for a few more minutes, then stalked back to her bedroom and tried to go back to sleep. She found she couldn't sleep anymore, so she went to the bathroom and showered. She made breakfast than watched television for a while. When she couldn't stand the silence any longer, she dressed and decided to walk down to the Leaky Cauldron to shop for something, _anything_, to get her mind off this cursed melancholy.

The walk was much lonelier than she remembered, but she supposed it was the solitude that was bothering her. She hadn't been on her own for a very long time.

She passed through the Leaky Cauldron, invisible, and into the alley. In Diagon Alley, she moved past the huddled groups of shoppers. The bank was too bright, the goblins too cheery (a mark of Morrigan's depression). The shopkeepers were too friendly and the assistants were too helpful. She just wanted to get a few books and a few potions, and then go home to figure out something to do.

She bought as many potion supplies as she could handle, planning to make some general antidotes for storage.

She went home, kicked off her shoes, then set to work.

She worked feverishly, using all her mental power to think about the task at hand, and it worked for a time.

Until she had to sleep. And then the nightmares haunted her far worse than any of the daytime terrors could have.

* * *

For those of you who are ACTUALLY continuing to read on, I'm trying to update this. In recent days I've been thinking about rewriting this as an original work, seeing as it's the only full-length project I've ever worked on. However, a few details such as setting and involvement of magic still need to be worked out. I was thinking about a kind of so-far-into-the-future-the-world-is-unrecognizable type setting with certain humans being able to channel emotions into being, so instead of casting a Cruciatus, people would be able to channel hate into a sensation of pain on their enemies. If you think this would be a conducive transition, let me know. Any other ideas, I'd like to hear those, too.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen: The Hardest Path and the Best Path Are Often The Same**

Two months passed, and for Morrigan, they felt like years. She became active in the Order, going in and out of the Ministry and the Weasleys', occasionally Grimmauld. Mostly she filed paperwork on certain Death Eaters, writing down a variety of information that the Ministry had forgotten. _Marcus Flint: Currently at large. _Morrigan added, _Responsible for the deaths of Cecil Adams and his wife Stephanie. _

Although she very deliberately avoided him, Morrigan couldn't completely circumvent Draco. They saw each other at meetings and occasionally bumped into each other walking in and out of those three places they commonly had business in. They would nod civilly at each other, trying to forget the clenching in their stomachs and those many months as close friends.

_He didn't care for me the way I cared for him. That's not healthy for a relationship. It's better this way_, Morrigan tried to tell herself, but she still missed him. It still hurt every time she was reminded that he broke his promise. Here they were, both quite alone, and she needed him more than ever. _Can he protect me from himself, though_? Morrigan asked herself bitterly. _Of course not_.

Draco's own reasoning was far different. _She can't forgive me. I've done the ultimate evil; broken the circle; I've held one friend over the other, made one more important. She doesn't want anything to do with me. _He refused to acknowledge that maybe Morrigan was jealous of Hermione, that she wanted to be in Hermione's position. _That's ridiculous_, he would tell himself, and then forget about it forcefully.

In Morrigan's heart, she couldn't acknowledge that she should just forget her pride, forget that Draco couldn't love her like he loved Hermione, as she assumed he did. She should, she told herself. Any friendship with Draco should be enough. But the agony of being second best was too much for her. She had never in all her life been second best, so she wasn't sure how to handle being second best in the life that was better for her. She could argue that there would always be someone better than her in some things, but she remembered…

She had been an expert follower. She'd never questioned an order, always following the Dark Lord's teachings with welcome. She never stepped over the line, never pushed him. She knew what his limitations of patience were, and she never even began to try them. She had been the perfect torture artist, as well. She could make her victim quiver in pain before she turned her wand on them. Her cold, merciless eyes damned, as she looked down her nose at the Mudblood or bloodtraitor at her feet. She wouldn't flinch at their pain, acknowledge their pleas, or their cries of agony. What a perfect inhuman monster. And she'd been so good at it. Superior. The best. Unparalleled. Peerless. Paramount. Every one of those words had been used to describe her emotionless flawlessness.

She would dwell on this, and for awhile, she was almost tempted to leave the apartment and all her possessions, turn her back on the battle of good and evil forever—because she couldn't use the love she had. What did it matter anymore? Then she would give herself a good shake and turn on the television.

At the end of the second month of hell, Morrigan received a letter from Hermione.

Morrigan—

_Hello there. I would have written sooner, but we haven't had time to rest, hardly, and we've been moving so frequently it just doesn't seem possible. I hope this letter finds you quite well, and that you've been well-occupied over the past two months. I know how bored you can get without anything in particular to do. Ron has grown a bit of a beard because he's had no opportunity to shave. It looks hilarious on him, and I tease him mercilessly. It's been quite strange with him, though. He's been acting odd since we left. He barely acknowledges my presence, and isn't nearly as intimate with me as we used to be. He won't tell me what's wrong, and Harry won't either. I won't even bring it up anymore, because they both get so angry when I speak of it. I'm sorry I can't tell you more, but if this gets in the wrong hands, Harry thinks our location will be immediately pinpointed. We are all quite well, and say hello to Draco for me, as I have decided to write only you and Ginny. Stay well!_

_Hermione_

Morrigan read and reread the letter, then put it away on her bookshelf, once again trying to forget the dramatic incidents surrounding Hermione's departure.

* * *

Remus Lupin visited the apartment one day in the middle of June, knocking on the door quietly. Morrigan answered almost immediately; she'd been pining for visitors. "Hello, Mr. Lupin. Can I help you?"

"Yes, I believe you can, Morrigan," Lupin said wearily, and Morrigan stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind him. "I'll get straight to the point. St. Mungo's is running dangerously low on their antidotes. The supply isn't fitting the demand, which is making the healing processes impossible or slow for many of the patients."

Morrigan waited for him to continue.

"We need someone to brew some new antidotes."

Morrigan sat back stiffly, her face frozen in surprise. "Why do you trust _me _with this job, sir?" Remus looked deeply uncomfortable and Morrigan could guess immediately why. "I'm the only person available," she answered herself flatly.

"It's true," he admitted, his voice laced with relief and guilt. "Draco recommended you. He said you seem to know what you're doing."

"Yes, I do, but how do you know that?" Morrigan asked, her tone facetious.

"Look, I'm deeply uncomfortable with this situation, but if your antidotes are found poisonous or unacceptable, it won't make the situation any worse if we test them beforehand and find them wanting."

"Which antidotes do they need?" Morrigan sighed in defeated tones. She didn't have it in her to argue for her innocence.

Lupin threw her an uncomfortable look. "You might want to write this down."

Glowering, Morrigan stood and grabbed a notebook and pen off the counter, clicked once, sat down cross-legged in the armchair, and looked expectantly up at Remus.

"The Wolfsbane Potion." Morrigan scribbled this down. "Menseisia. Nervorum. Immunus Sumbolon. And Contradius."

"Er…why not use a bezoar?"

"They're a bit expensive, Morrigan."

"Since _when_?" Morrigan challenged.

"Since the Dark Lord started massacring goats across the country," Remus responded shortly. "That list shouldn't take you too much more than a couple of months, if you do two at a time. Have a nice day."

Morrigan watched him leave.

When she was alone, she gazed back down at the list. At the moment, she had enough Nervorum, a drug given to patients in an extreme amount of pain, and Menseisia, a potion for mental ease, to heal an army. She hadn't thought at first that she could create it, but had proved herself wrong. Belatedly, she realized that she should have given him what potions she'd already had. _Oh well, _she thought, shrugging to herself. Apparently she didn't understand what "dangerously low" meant.

With her new chore in hand, she began to feverishly put her mind to brewing the potions. The tasks were so blissfully difficult that she no longer had to deal with that terrible hole in her chest.

It had been growing for so long, and she wasn't sure how much physical pain she could honestly take. The Hole, as she liked to call it in her mind, was less emptiness and more nothingness, a significant distinction. While emptiness was a lack of anything positive, nothingness was a whole lot of something negative. Every day it grew a bit more. Every time she thought about Draco pressing his mouth to Hermione's, she could feel her stomach clench, and she would uncontrollably wrap her arms around her waist, sink to the floor, and rock back and forth, squeezing her eyes shut and muttering her mantra under her breath. _From whence came you? _The Tuatha De Danann. _And then? _The Druids. _And? _The advisors of kings, warriors, and bards, all touched with magic. _And…_She would continue in this method for as long as she could remember. Sometimes she could alleviate the pain. Other times, she was not so fortunate. Every time she imagined his perfect blue eyes, his chiseled features, or the coolness of his hands, she would be sent into fearful convulsions. She refused to cry. That would be the absolute worst. If she allowed herself to cry now, she mightn't be able to resist when Draco was near her.

Still, concentrating on these potions became such a distraction, sometimes she almost felt like she used to. She could close her eyes and imagine that she was standing in the potions laboratorium, inhaling deep breaths of monkshood for the sentry werewolves. She could pretend that the Hole was simply emptiness, as it had once been. Nothing had changed. She didn't have anything to worry about. She was just working. Following orders. One job at a time, right?

The harder she lied to herself, the easier the lies came. She almost believed these little logical half-truths. They made sense, why shouldn't they be true? _After the war, I will have more friends, and my regards will be spent upon someone who returns them. _Lie. _I don't really need Draco_. Lie. _I've been doing fine without him. _Lie. _I don't need anyone. _Lie. When those lies didn't work_, You misinterpreted the kiss. _Lie. _What you told Ron was probably true. _Bigger lie. _Maybe Draco actually does care. _Biggest lie.

She had another game that she'd come up with when shopping for more ingredients. _Bite down hard every time you blink. _It was simple and stupid, but the concentration needed to create a bodily habit in synchronization with a congenital one was all the brainpower she needed when she waited for the time to pass. It was rather difficult to think, _I should you blinked now bite try to figure out a pattern you blinked now bite in the days I bump into you blinked now bite Draco at the Ministry you blinked now bite_. The thought would stay incomplete due to incessant interruption, so even when she managed to think about Draco, the thought wouldn't even fully process. This game worked until she realized that she didn't need any thought any more. The new game became how to stop biting when you blinked. And that wasn't nearly as hard as the original.

In this way Morrigan passed the time for another month. With three crates of boxes stacked magically in her arms, she went to the Ministry in hopes of finding Lupin. She was not disappointed when she found him visiting with Kingsley, as she was told by the helpful recording in the phone booth.

Morrigan knocked on the door of the Auror's office, and Shacklebolt answered her, looking at her in apprehension. "Yes?"

"I—" Morrigan faltered. Kingsley's eyebrows rose. "I need to talk to Mr. Lupin, please. I have the antidotes he wanted."

Kingsley stepped aside and allowed her entrance. Lupin was leaning against the edge of a desk with his arms folded over his chest. Currently, he was appraising her coolly.

"The—the antidotes, sir," she stuttered, cursing the nervousness in her voice. She _knew _she hadn't poisoned them, and she knew that she'd dotted every "i" and crossed every "t."

"Kingsley, do you have any poison tester?" Remus asked, his voice clear.

"Yes, one moment." The tall man left and came back a moment later with an empty cauldron and a large beaker of poison tester.

Lupin opened one box and began to pull out the vials of Wolfsbane Potion very carefully. One by one he tipped them into the cauldron until they were all empty and the cauldron was full. Lupin dumped a small bit of the tester into the cauldron, waited five seconds, and then smiled satisfactorily. "Good."

With a flick of his wand, the contents of the cauldron leapt into their vials and sealed themselves as well as Morrigan had by hand. She scowled at the trick and made a mental note to research that spell later. Lupin pointed his wand at the cauldron now and muttered "_Scourgify_!" The cauldron now looked cleaner than it had when Kingsley had brought it in. "Better safe than sorry, you know," he muttered.

Every potion was tested similarly, and at the end, Lupin packed them all carefully into their boxes and stacked them as Morrigan had done. "Very good job, Morrigan," Remus said kindly. "All satisfactory. I'm glad we can finally truly trust you." He took a piece of parchment, wrote a note on it and signed it, then taped it to the top of the boxes.

"Me, too," Morrigan muttered, but her scowl had lightened considerably.

"Well, I suppose some form of incentive is in order," Remus said, gazing at Morrigan closely.

"That's not necessary," Morrigan rushed in saying, but he shook his head.

"Deliver these to St. Mungo's. It'll be a great feeling to know how much these will be appreciated."

Morrigan stared at him for a moment, then nodded silently, picked up the boxes, and left. She entered the hospital with more patience then when she'd left the Ministry. She wasn't nearly as anxious to get back home as she was now. More than anything, she was curious. At the front desk, the witch gazed at her. "Parcels can be handled in the mail office," she said bossily, pointing in the correct direction.

"Actually, I have antidotes. The note on the top of this, it's been signed by Remus Lupin. He sent me over to give these to you."

"Hm, yes, take it to the Care Supply Office, will you? Third floor, left from the stairs, and sixth door on the right." Morrigan nodded quietly.

As she climbed the stairs, she tried to remember ever having been in St. Mungo's. It seemed familiar, and she thought that perhaps she'd been here before, but then again, all hospitals looked the same. She climbed the stairs, leaning to the side when another witch met her going down. At the sixth landing, she turned left and counted the doors on her right side until she came to a heavy, windowless door that could only be the Care Supply Office. She knocked twice, and when no one came, she showed herself in.

She found herself in a large closet-like space, metal shelves on both sides. Every once in awhile, they branched in another direction, but Morrigan could hear muffled voices toward the end of the closet. She followed the aisle until it turned left and came upon two young witches, bent over broken vials and trying desperately to remember the right spell to clean the spilt potions.

"Oh! If only I'd paid attention," one whined gloomily.

"Hello," Morrigan said uncertainly. The two girls looked up at her with fear on their faces.

"We're so sorry—"

"It was an accident—"

"We were trying to clean it up—"

"Can't remember the spell—"

Morrigan set the boxes down. "It's okay!" she told them, her voice rising over theirs. "I'm not an administrator. And I'm not going to tell on you."

The two girls exchanged similar expressions of relief. "Thanks," one said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Morrigan noticed her nails had been painted bright red. "We just started and _nothing _seems to be going right."

Morrigan smiled warmly, extending a hand. "I'm Morrigan Flaherty. The Ministry sent me to give you these antidotes."

The girls' faces brightened. The more assertive of the two said, "I'm Carol, and this is Melody. We're in charge of handing out the antidotes."

Melody nodded quietly. Carol continued, "Do you want to help? It takes awhile, but you might be interested in helping us…"

"Sure," Morrigan said with a shrug. "I have Wolfsbane…." They organized the beakers for each ward, Melody checking them off their list of patients.

"We weren't expecting them this soon," she explained quietly. "The Ministry said it would take another month. Now we can send some of these people home to their families early."

Morrigan beamed at her. "I'm so glad I can help."

Melody flushed then the three girls put the vials in boxes and began their circulation of the third floor.

An entire ward had been devoted to those intentionally poisoned. Morrigan saw in horror that they'd pushed the beds together to accommodate as many as possible. "There are so many," she whispered.

"I know," Carol said slightly louder. "It was even worse yesterday. An entire banquet was poisoned with this rare potion. We didn't have the right antidote, so we had to use the rest of the bezoars. It was horrid. They're still in the next room, screaming at each other. They think that the house elf did it, but the Ministry has reason to believe it was Imperiused, because she can't remember anything happening."

"How ghastly," Morrigan murmured. "Do you often get the first information on Ministry cases?"

"Well, we have to, don't we? I mean, how else are we supposed to calm our patients?"

"Sometimes it's best that they don't know," Morrigan muttered. "Are we getting to work, then?"

"Yes, you can go ahead and give this side Immunus Sumbolon. They've been healed already, but they're susceptible to any of the potion ingredients. Then give the last five Contradius."

Morrigan began to work immediately. Most of the patients barely registered she was there, but a tiny little boy refused to take the potion. "Come on—" Morrigan searched for his name and found a tiny piece of paper taped to the headboard "—Charlie, you need to take this or you can get extremely ill."

"It tastes nasty!" he protested loudly. Morrigan sighed and sat down.

"I realize you're probably very scared. You miss your family, and you want to go home, but you have to eat this first."

His eyes got very wide, and his mouth was slightly agape. She took the opportunity to shove the vial in his mouth, pull his head back quickly but gently, and plug his nose. He swallowed in a panic, and the potion went down.

"You forced me!" he spluttered, and Morrigan smiled wryly.

"Sorry, I have to do my job. Have a good day, Charlie." She left him muttering mutinously and moved on to the other patients.

The last five were slightly more interesting, and certainly more grateful. They took the potions immediately and without complaint. Each had a similar scar on the teardrop above their mouth, making it look as if the teardrop had been cut in half. Morrigan tried not to stare, but instead finished her work and waited at the door for the two Healer Trainees. When they finished and met her at the exit. "Did everything go well?" Carol asked her brightly.

"I had a bit of trouble with Charlie, but he should be better soon."

"Ah, yes, Charlie. It's a shame about him."

"What do you mean?" Morrigan frowned.

Carol leaned in and whispered dramatically, "He's the only one that survived the poison."

"What do you mean?" Morrigan gasped.

"You-Know-Who poisoned their pipes. His whole family—two sisters, mother and father—_died_. They found him shivering with a hundred and fifty degree temperature in a corner in his home. His parents were dead in their bed."

"How did he survive?" Morrigan hissed, horrified.

"We don't know. Child's immunity or something like that."

Morrigan mouthed wow, and the witch nodded matter-of-factly. Morrigan followed them as they led her on to the next room.

The final round led them to the fourth floor. Carol stopped at the door, over which a plaque read "Janus Thickey Ward," and said, "This is basically the loony ward, so I thought I'd warn you. Some of these people are pretty far gone, so just be careful." Morrigan paled, remembering that she could herself be lying in this very room. She took a deep breath and nodded, following Melody and Carol in.

Morrigan looked around gloomily. It was quite obvious of the permanency this ward displayed. Each bed had about two and half feet on both sides, which were littered with personal effects. "Oh, look, more fans!" said a cheery voice to her right. Morrigan turned and stared into the cheeky face of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, stepping back. She remembered reading his books a few years ago and thinking about how exceptionally brave he was, if a bit vain and certainly not as great as he could have been _helping _Dark wizards instead of fighting them. She had even found him remotely attractive. "Hello, Mr. Lockhart," she said, smiling at him, wondering what on earth had happened to him.

"Hallo. Whom shall I sign it to?" he asked. He reached for a picture of himself, the topmost of a large stack. He held a child's quill in his fingers, and he reached across the table, putting its tip in the childproof inkpot.

"Oh, er…" Carol saw her and headed in her direction.

She smiled grimly at the expression on Morrigan's face. "This one was trying to Obliviate someone and their wand backfired. Blew his brains out. Figuratively, of course."

"Wow, he really used to be famous, too."

Carol shrugged. "Just goes to show, fame can't buy safety."

"I guess so." Morrigan turned to Gilderoy, deciding to humor him. "My name's Morrigan," she told him.

He began writing on the picture, and then looked up at confusedly. With a shrug, he turned back down to the photo and finished scrawling something out. He smiled at her brightly, handing it to her. She saw, in amusement, that he had spelt her name quite wrong. She couldn't be sure, but it might have said, "kzTTjV," instead of Morrigan.

"Thanks, Mr. Lockhart," she said, and he smiled at her. "Come back soon!" he called as she walked away.

"This is who needs to be healed," Carol said, looking down at the man in the bed.

He was wearing silky green pajamas, his hair disheveled, and his face far healthier than Morrigan had ever seen, but she would recognize him anywhere.

It was Lucius Malfoy.

"Lucius!" Morrigan gasped in horror, staring down at him. She'd only known that the Dark Lord had punished him, and that Lucius was now incapable of ever joining their ranks again, but she'd no idea what it was that Voldemort had done to him. She could now see that he was incredibly insane.

He looked up at her as if he recognized her, and shrunk back in horror. _He recognizes me as a Death Eater_, Morrigan thought, tugging guiltily at the hem of her sleeve. She sat down on the bed with him, and he began to whimper. She could feel Carol's eyes, wondering what was going on.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Lucius," she whispered. She felt the most horrible connection to this man, for several reasons. First, she, too, had been victim to the Voldemort's Cruciatus. He had also been a Death Eater. But first and foremost, he was Draco's father.

Morrigan put a reassuring hand on his, staring into his face. He seemed to calm at her touch. She wondered at how his eyes had changed so much. Once, she knew, they'd been cold and unforgiving. Now they were just…lost. There was hardly an expression, and it seemed to change him entirely. No pride, no hatred, just survival. _How curious_, Morrigan thought.

"How do you know _him_?"

"I—" Morrigan started, but shut her mouth promptly. She didn't want to lie, but she didn't want to tell the truth, either. "He was a friend of my father's. I don't know him all too well. I'm…I was close with his son."

Carol giggled abruptly, surprising Morrigan. Insanity was probably the least prompting subject for a giggle, and she turned to look at Carol sharply. The girl didn't seem to notice.

"Oh, Draco? He's so _cute_. I can't believe you know him! He's really dark and introverted, but oh dear…"

"Carol, his lunatic father is sitting in this bed," Morrigan snapped, sobering the girl up a bit.

"Yeah, I know," she muttered guiltily.

"What is it I'm supposed to do for him?" Morrigan sighed.

"Well, the hospital was supposed to charge the Ministry worker making the antidote to make a very strong remedial potion for him, but we haven't got a set recipe. You're supposed to figure it out yourself."

Morrigan turned to look at Lucius, staring at him before turning back to Carol. "Yeah, I think I can do that," she murmured, and the girl beamed.

"Good, we're looking forward to hearing about your progress soon."

Morrigan helped administer the potions and left.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen: Draco's Story**

Morrigan brewed the potion for a month. She experimented frequently, which meant that she had to restart quite a lot. As a result, she created several cauldrons of the same potion, tweaking each pot differently. If one ingredient seemed to work well, she used it in every potion. If she didn't, she dumped that potion and made another cauldronfull. She found that some regular remedial ingredients were stronger than others, and those were the ones that she was consistent in. It was difficult testing the potion, and she often checked it for poison. Sometimes the ingredients would combine to create a highly toxic substance, and once more, she had to begin again.

It was a long, difficult task, and sometimes she hated it. It never seemed to go forward, simply in circles. Other times she liked it, much the same as when some people like Algebra. There was a hidden variable, always constant, and if you changed one part of a potion, you had to change the other parts. Everything had to be equally distributed, or else the potion wouldn't work.

Finally, Morrigan began to understand which ingredients were working consistently, and why. She finally came out with a result that she was somewhat happy with. Although not terribly original, since she'd more or less combined two or three potions to get the result, she was confident that this could help, even though curing was rather out of the question.

Excitedly, she bottled it, brushed her hair into a ponytail, pulled on her cloak, and Apparated to the alley behind the Ministry of Magic's aboveground counterpart. Glad no one was around, she walked smartly around the building and into the telephone booth. She stated her name and business, and was dropped into the underground.

She was relieved to get off the lift—she hated those blasted things. Quickly she found Shacklebolt, who checked the potion for poison, proclaimed it satisfactory, and signed a slip proclaiming it safe.

When she finally arrived at St. Mungo's, Morrigan's excitement had built exponentially. She headed up to the Supply Office, was checked off by a Healer, and hurried to the Janus Thickey ward. She ignored Lockhart's greeting, moved past a gaunt woman whose Healer was trying desperately to get bubblegum out of her hair ("Stop fidgeting, Alice!), and finally…stopped short.

Draco was sitting in the chair by Lucius, leaning forward and helping the man eat his breakfast as a father feeding his son—only Draco was supposed to be Lucius' son.

Morrigan didn't know what to do. Should she try some other time? Should she give him the potion now?

Morrigan bristled at her weakness. Draco was just a person she knew, and his father needed this potion. The longer she waited, the more likely the strength of the potion would wane. Most potions lost potency over a long time, but with the ingredients that Morrigan had used, she should administer the potion immediately.

She braced herself, closed her eyes, covered her face with her mask, and strode forward to the end of the bed.

"Malfoy," she said curtly, nodding at Draco, who looked up, startled.

"Morrigan! What are you doing here?" he asked, his tones surprised, with a hint of frosty suspicion.

"I've been charged to make a potion for your father and administer it," she informed him icily.

Draco's expression was as blank as her own. "Why?"

"The Healers think that a bit of stronger remedial potion, he can get better."

"He's beyond cure. Surely you know that," Draco told her sharply.

Morrigan took in a breath. She'd barely been breathing. "I really must insist. This is my job, and I have to do it."

"You're a Healer?" Draco inquired skeptically.

"No," Morrigan said tightly. "I'm brewing antidotes, lackwit."

They glared at each other for a long, tense moment, when finally Lucius broke the silence by knocking his tray on the ground, spilling everything. Morrigan forgot herself and rushed forward to help. Draco's expression forced her backwards. _So he really does hate me_, Morrigan thought.

In fact, Draco was angry with her, but he was more so at himself. He wanted so desperately to blame her for taking Hermione's kiss out of proportion. After all, she couldn't dictate whom he kissed and whom he didn't. Still, he had let her walk away; he had closed the deal of their relationship. Even more, he'd broken his promise, and for hurting Morrigan like that, he could blame only himself.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I really do trust you. Go ahead, administer the potion."

Morrigan sat on the bed next to Lucius, and he stared at her nervously. Some part of him knew that he should be scared of her. She was familiar. Something about her…she almost reminded him of a woman who had hurt him a while ago. Of course, this woman had been Bellatrix, not Morrigan, but she still had black hair, with large eyes, and with that similar dark beauty.

Morrigan opened the vial and said, "Mr. Malfoy, I need you to drink this."

Lucius didn't seem to understand her.

"Dad," Draco said quietly, "Morrigan needs to give you something. Here," he said to Morrigan, holding out his hand, "Let me see it."

Morrigan handed him the vial, knowing full well that Lucius would be more likely to let Draco do it.

Draco held out the vial, and pressed the tip to Lucius' mouth. Happily, the man drank the whole thing. Morrigan watched in bright anticipation, hoping something would happen. Lucius' eyes dilated and his face flushed, but nothing seemed to happen. In fact, after a moment, he turned back to the bedside table, took the crayons that were lying there, and began doodling again.

"I'm sorry, Draco," Morrigan said, "I tried to—"

"Draco?" Lucius piped up, furrowing his brow. "Draco, Draco, Draco…" he muttered, then turned to Draco himself. "Draco," he said, pointing at his son's chest.

Morrigan could feel tears coming to her eyes. "Yes, that's Draco."

"Draco's my son," Lucius said happily, then resumed coloring.

Draco looked up at Morrigan with surprised, but thankful, eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly. "That's the first time he's ever recognized me."

"Narcissa is going to join us, Draco," Lucius said, his face still toward his fingers and the surface of the table. "We will go to the Parkinson's for brunch. How do you like that?"

Draco didn't say anything. He couldn't tell if this strange belief that things were as they had been when Draco was ten was good for Lucius, or horribly worse. _Anything close to the real Father is good_, he decided firmly.

"Where is Narcissa, Draco?" Lucius said, turning to Draco.

"She's gone, Father," Draco croaked.

"Don't be stupid, Draco. She's not gone. She had tea with Madonna, today," he said, referring to Madonna Rookwood.

"I'm sorry, that was a long time ago, Father," Draco said firmly.

Lucius looked up sharply. "What do you keep calling me father?" he asked Draco. "I'm not your father. My real son is coming to get me soon, and then we're going to the Parkinson's for lunch. Who are you?"

Draco sighed and Morrigan felt horrible. The potion, however strong, would never be strong enough to bring the real Lucius Malfoy. Even worse, a small part of Morrigan thought that this was perhaps for the best. If the former Death Eater, proud Pureblood, saw Draco as an Order-member and traitor against Voldemort, he would certainly throw a fit, and Lucius wouldn't be insane to Draco—Draco would be dead to Lucius. Morrigan shuddered to think of how Lucius would react to Draco snogging Hermione. No doubt Lucius would personally kill Draco.

"I'm sorry, Draco," Morrigan said, putting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She was in no disposition to hate Draco anymore. It took too much effort.

"You did your best, Morrigan," he said, trying to put on a brave smile. "That's the very best anyone can say. You're the first person that even tried anything."

"Well, don't give up just yet. I'll keep feeding him the potion, and meanwhile I'll hopefully be able to figure out a stronger one. I bet it's possible—"

"Morrigan, no potion is going to save my father. He's locked in his mind because he wanted to be. You of all people should understand how it works."

Morrigan nodded, _But still_, she thought, _I have to try. Draco really does need it—to know that I'm trying my hardest to get his father back to him in working order, that anyone is trying at all._

Draco shook his head and leaned back. "He'd be so ashamed of me," he thought aloud.

Morrigan looked up at him. "For what?"

"For everything," Draco sighed. "I'm too weak for him."

"Obviously you're a right bit stronger than him," Morrigan said sharply. Draco's eyes flickered angrily. "Sorry," she remedied, "but you've done nothing wrong."

"What he wanted and what was right were two very different things, you're right," Draco agreed. "But still, all children want to know that they're living up to their parents' standards."

"I think my parents would be jolly bothered if they saw me now," Morrigan said cheerfully.

Draco snickered, but said nothing. "Draco, what _happened _to you?" Morrigan asked. "You were a Death Eater, too, but you changed. Why?"

Draco hesitated. He'd never really told anyone his "story" before, mostly because no one had seemed interested enough to inquire—a formidable task which required a fair amount of intrigue

With an inward shrug, Draco said, "It mostly started with Dumbledore. There are quite a few things that Dumbledore had over Voldemort. For one, you had to validly earn his trust. A five-minute torture session or disposing of a loved one is considered barbaric among Dumbledore's folk.

"He was right there, when I tried to kill him. He was so weak, I could have punched him in the nose and he would have dropped dead on the spot. But he started to taunt me, to stall. He began to speak of protection and helping my family, when I realized that if this situation was placed before Voldemort, he would be speaking of disposal and punishment. Honestly, the more appetizing route seemed to be Dumbledore's.

"After he died, and we retreated, things were so chaotic, and Dumbledore's words were ringing in my ears. 'Imagine,' I thought, 'A master I don't fear—myself.' This was so much on my mind, I barely made it onto the grounds without being cursed. While everyone else Apparated from Hogwarts to Parselart, I Apparated to London, immediately running to Diagon Alley, my mind on hiding. Instead of entering the Leaky Cauldron, though, I decided to go to the Ministry and tell them everything. The only person present at the time was Arthur Weasley."

"Ron's father."

"Yes," Draco affirmed. "They're quite a close family, the Weasleys," he mused randomly, and Morrigan raised a delicate eyebrow at him. Draco went on. "I confessed everything, explaining what Dumbledore had said to me, and that I didn't kill him. I didn't mention that I hadn't been able to kill him out of spineless inhibition. I simply allowed him to believe that I was meaning to help him. Weasley, of course, took me straight to the Order and locked me in, wandless."

"You took that risk out of pure faith that they would believe you?" Morrigan asked him skeptically, putting her face in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees.

"Yes," Draco affirmed, as if trying to reassure himself.

"Ah. Go on."

"After Dumbledore's funeral, the Order came back to Headquarters, and immediately they questioned me furiously, getting every detail they could. I was so overdosed on Truth Serum, they almost had to call a Healer. Hermione stepped in, telling them they were bordering on inhumane treatment." He shook his head, thinking about Hermione's angry defense over his shaking body. He could still see her finger pointing down at him, her face pale in fury. He had never felt closer to another human being in his entire life—and not necessarily an endearing close, but more like a claustrophobic closeness that threatened to suffocate him. His mind had slid fuzzily from her enraged words to her livid face, until finally he had collapsed into an unconscious shock. Hermione had healed him efficiently, much to the surprise of the interrogators (Moody and the now-dead Gregori Peterson). Indebted to her, Draco had never been more spiteful of her.

Lucius turned and stared at Morrigan, then touched her hair. She smiled at him, but pulled his sticky fingers from her hair, placing them firmly in his lap. Bored, Lucius began coloring again.

"She healed me, and then after more questioning, I was allowed to go. Instead of leaving, though, I requested to join the Order. There was a lot of debate, until finally, on the grounds that this was probably what Dumbledore had wanted, they let me into the Order and asked me to spy on Voldemort, giving me just enough information to return."

Morrigan shifted in her seat, her nose wrinkled. "Go on," she urged him.

"Well, you know the rest," Draco said dourly. "I came back, gave Voldemort the information and told him that I had left to make amends for my weakness. He accepted the excuse and allowed me to live. My mother, however, was killed and my father tortured to insanity. You, of course, remember this."

Morrigan nodded sympathetically. She could see the end of the story with her own eyes.

"Anyway, you know the rest."

"So, that's the traitor's story," Morrigan said bemusedly, biting her lip and shaking her head piteously. "I really am sorry. I don't understand how all that made you change, though."

"You already know why," Draco replied stiffly.

"Well, my transformation…it was so much more difficult. Yours was just a quick adjustment to the right side. You hadn't proved that you'd changed."

Draco sighed. "I had to change. I forced myself to do it, because I'd never have lasted long in the organization. And how would I have gone back to them if I still believed what Voldemort said?"

Morrigan flinched.

"You know, you can say his name."

"I'm not that brave," she snorted, and changed back to the original subject. "I don't think I can _ever_ be that brave, or devoted to anything, as to change my views for some organization."

"You did, though."

"No, I didn't. I changed my views because you had convincing arguments that yours were right."

"Hm…" Draco said, gazing at his father. _They're never coming back_, he wondered with a start. _Never—oh God, what have I done? I can only hate myself…_

"Best not dwell on that," Morrigan told him kindly, and he realized with a start that he had said that out loud.

"I think it's a good idea to have it memorized, don't you?" Draco shot at her. Morrigan flinched.

"It doesn't help you move on, though, Draco. You can't hate yourself, so please don't." She tried to keep her voice warm, despite the fact that his words were cool.

"Because you know so much about it. Of course, I wouldn't forgive my parents, either, if one died on me, the other made me endure torture, and the other beat me. It seems it didn't do the trick, though, did it?" This time, his words were aimed with careless malice, and Morrigan sat back in shock. What had she done? Taking this as her cue to leave, she stood, then turned and walked out of the ward. Draco gave his father a hasty hug, and followed her out the door just as fast as he could.

She was going quickly down the hall. "Morrigan, wait," he called, and she stopped without turning around. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you don't know what you're saying," she said in a cool voice, finally faced him, and bridged the gap between them. "It wasn't enough that I'd ignored the past few months, trying to be kind, pretended that those months didn't exist. But it wasn't enough. It's amazing—you really do hate me."

"Hate you?" Draco asked incredulously. "How could I hate you?"

"It seems that you know the perfect way to hurt me, to shoot me down," she growled. "You make promises you can't keep, you reject me, you criticize things that I've _tried _to change, and I'm just kind of here, standing in the shadow of you and Hermione, and I'm wondering, now what? Am I supposed to get new friends, am I supposed to not _have _friends?"

"Of course not, I'm your friend," Draco said, shocked.

"Yeah, and you've been so friendly the past few months," Morrigan returned coolly. "Last I checked, your promise was pretty much friendship."

"Don't be ridiculous, I haven't broken a promise," Draco protested hotly, but Morrigan cut him off.

"Yeah? Where were you? Were you holding my hand when I most needed you? No, you were sulking. You didn't know what to say to me, so you pretended I wasn't there."

"I knew you were there," Draco grumbled.

"Oh, so you told yourself that I didn't want you to talk to me, then," Morrigan laughed humorlessly.

"Well, you walked away from me," he said sheepishly.

"Ohhhhhh!" she groaned loudly. "You're so daft. You were spewing your words of wisdom, and all the while, it didn't mean shit." She grabbed his hand, held it up to his face, and dropped it, lifeless. "_This _didn't mean shit." She shoved him. "_That _didn't mean shit. It's _all _shit. Everything you told me—utter shite. So, what is it, Draco, what _is _your real policy?"

"What are you talking about, you madwoman!" Draco shouted back at her, pushing her, too. "I tried! Every time someone really wants to talk to you, you close them off! You didn't _want _me to get the answer out of you that night. You just wanted someone to come and comfort you, to say, 'There, there, Morrigan, it's all right, you're not a jealous bitch at _all_.'"

"I wanted you to earn it!" she yelled at him. "You can't just say, 'What's wrong?' and expect me to immediately spill my guts, Malfoy. You have to make me _want _to tell you! I mean, why should I just tell you when you don't want to know too terribly? I mean, if you really cared, you would have followed me, made sure that I really was okay!"

"Oh yeah? You didn't exactly tell me where you were going."

"Gee, Draco, maybe I went _home_? Wouldn't that be the obvious answer? And if I wasn't there, then I really didn't want you to follow. Honestly, you think you're clever, and so fabulously wise, but you're _nothing_ when it comes to relationships."

"You're _right_," he hissed at her. "Which is why I didn't like you or Granger in the first place."

"Well, you don't have any problem sticking your tongue in her mouth!"

"Why do _you _care where I put my mouth?" he asked her coolly, leaning back and crossing his arms.

Morrigan sputtered incoherently before she spit out, "I don't, besides it makes it uneven," she lied. It sounded true enough. "If you and Hermione start seeing each other, then our circle will be weighed toward you two. Where will that leave me?"

"I don't know, but things happen, Morrigan, and you just have to deal."

"Why?" she demanded. "Why should I deal with the break of the circle, my only friends?"

"Because Hermione and I have other friends," he snapped, regretting it instantly.

Morrigan's face went slack, but suddenly she replied, every bit as nasty, "No, correction, _Hermione _has other friends. Harry and Ron hate you every bit as, or more than, they hate me. In fact, I daresay they've taken a _liking _to me."

"You're insufferable!" Draco bellowed, no longer feeling guilty.

"You're an ass!" she shouted back.

A Healer came out of the ward beside them and snapped in hush tones, "Be quiet, will you, or I'll kick you out of the hospital!"

Both of them stared at her angrily, so she backed into the ward.

"I wish you didn't want me to hate you so," Morrigan whispered, looking down at her feet.

"I don't want you to hate me, Morrigan," Draco sighed, lifting her chin to look at her.

"Then what is it you want, Draco?" Morrigan asked tiredly. "I can't ever make you completely satisfied with me, and that's all I wanted to do in the first place." She gave him one last glance, then spun away from him, down the hall, turning at the stairs for a hasty retreat.

Morrigan could feel her shoulders crumple as she went out of sight. She didn't want to break down here, in public. It was mortifying. She tried not to think about the circumstances with which she was leaving. He entreated her with every action to despise him, but she honestly couldn't bring herself to do it. She wanted to care for him, to be friends with him, but she didn't know if it was possible when he so obviously loved Hermione.

Draco watched her leave with such a crushing disappointment in his chest. It was like losing complete hope in everything. He didn't understand why her back was so terribly ominous to his life. He wanted her to be a part of his life, but he didn't understand what she wanted.

Worse, he didn't understand what he wanted.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen: Welcome Back…?**

Morrigan continued to bring antidotes to Lucius, but she made sure it was when visiting hours were over. Lucius would, of course, remember that he had a son named Draco and a wife named Narcissa for about twenty minutes before he would slip into unrecognizing silence. Every night she went home, more disappointed than the last. Unfortunately, she was no closer to finding a better potion, as she was currently stuck. _What bad luck_, she thought to herself every time she left.

After the seventh day he checked antidotes for poisons, Remus finally said, "Morrigan, I think I can trust you not to poison them anymore. I've wronged you. You've done an excellent job."

"Thank you, sir," Morrigan said stiffly.

"Have you heard from Hermione lately?" Remus asked, his voice weary.

"No, sir, I haven't," Morrigan told him.

"Just as I thought," Remus said. "Harry had been certain they'd be back by now. I think I'm going to send someone out to look for them soon. Frankly, I'm worried."

"How can you know where they've gone?" Morrigan asked with a frown. "They didn't tell us."

"That's the problem," Remus sighed. "I have no idea where to begin."

"They'll show up any day now," Morrigan assured him. "Don't lose hair over it, I'm sure they're fine together. From the sound of it, they've gone through quite a bit together."

"Yes, they have, but they've been lucky. Who knows how long this luck will hold out?"

"Don't worry about it right now. Worry about it when we haven't heard from them in six months. That's the time when you're sure something went horribly wrong. Hermione said they would be back a fortnight ago, and anything can happen to lengthen that time. Maybe they haven't found it yet."

"Do you know what they were looking for?" Remus asked piercingly.

"Yes, I do," Morrigan admitted. "But I can't tell you. It's not my secret to tell."

"I suspected as much. Well, I have work to do, Morrigan. I'll see you soon."

"See you, sir."

She left, wondering if Hermione would indeed be coming home soon.

* * *

Morrigan Apparated straight into her home that night and noticed immediately she wasn't alone. The lights were on and there were voices coming from Hermione's bedroom. She recognized them immediately and practically leapt through the door.

"You're back!" she shouted excitedly, only to be hushed by Ron and Harry.

"She's sleeping!" Ron hissed, taking Morrigan by the arm and dragging her out.

"What's wrong with your eye, Weasley?" Morrigan asked, staring at his face in horror. A dreadful scar ran from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his jaw. His eye was a milky blue.

"I can't use it anymore," he said, looking the other direction. "I'm blind."

Morrigan gasped in horror. "What happened?"

"We can't tell you about it now," Harry said tiredly. "Right now, you just need to be happy that we found the Horcruxes."

"All of them?" Morrigan asked excitedly.

"All of them," Harry affirmed grimly.

"And?"

"We destroyed them. Voldemort's mortal."

Morrigan crashed into him, hugging him tightly. "I knew you would do it!" she cried. Harry patted her awkwardly on the back.

"That's, er, nice," he said. "But we have to go back to the Burrow now. Hermione is…she's really scared right now. She's actually suffering from hysteria."

"What do you mean she's 'suffering from hysteria?'" Morrigan asked, her eyes narrowing.

"She's a bit…insane," Harry told her. "She will get better in time, but she's going to need a lot of help. And maybe a Calming Draught when she wakes up. We picked some ingredients up when we came back. You should have enough to make the Draught in the next eight hours, and she should probably sleep longer than that."

"Okay," Morrigan confirmed, nodding her head. "Welcome back," she added before they Apparated. Harry waved at her once and then left.

Morrigan crept into Hermione's room to watch the girl. She had scratches on her arms and face, and she was sleeping fitfully. Morrigan frowned. _What precisely happened? _she wondered, and left to make the Calming Draught.

* * *

When Morrigan finished the Calming Draught, she woke Hermione up promptly. Sitting on the edge of Hermione's bed, Morrigan shook the sleeper's shoulder gently. Hermione began screaming, and with perfect precision and a fair bit of strength, she punched Morrigan in the nose.

Morrigan could feel it break, and she shrieked, standing up and running to the bathroom. Sure enough, it was positioned in such a way that she couldn't doubt Hermione had broken her nose. Morrigan pointed at her own nose and muttered, "_Episkey_." Her nose resumed normal shape and stopped bleeding at once.

Morrigan determinedly walked into Hermione's, but the girl was already sitting up in bed.

"Good afternoon, Hermione," Morrigan said curtly, but the girl jumped at her voice, shivering obviously. She scanned the room nervously. "Are you okay?" Morrigan asked, and Hermione seemed to just notice her then.

"Morrigan," she whispered, flinging herself out of bed into Morrigan, who hit the bureau with a grunt. Hermione hugged her tightly, and Morrigan could barely breathe.

"Hermione," she groaned, "I can't breathe."

"Oh, sorry," Hermione said, backing away. Morrigan got a good look at her. Besides the scratches, a lot had happened to Hermione. Her face was gaunt and pale, her eyes dull. Morrigan was very alarmed. She took Hermione by the hand and led her to the kitchen. The girl was shivering, so Morrigan grabbed her own housecoat from the hook on the door and put it on Hermione, whose limbs were limp and lifeless. Morrigan was truly terrified.

She sat Hermione down at the table and forced the Draught into Hermione's hands. The Draught was warm and Hermione immediately brought it to her lips. Morrigan had lowered the dosage to make sure Hermione didn't fall asleep. Hermione's shivering stopped, and her face took on some light. "How have you been?" she asked Morrigan, who looked at her worriedly.

"Fine. I'm more worried about you, though." Hermione didn't respond. "Hermione, what happened?" Hermione looked up at Morrigan with a haunted look in her eyes. "Fine, fine," Morrigan said hastily. "I'm calling your parents, though. They have to see you."

"Not like this!" Hermione cried, suddenly passionate.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but they haven't seen you for awhile, and they need to."

Hermione didn't protest again and remained silent until she finished her cup of Draught.

Morrigan led her to the couch where she turned on the television, allowing Hermione to watch some daytime soap opera. Morrigan went to the cupboard and found her box of cordial cherries. She had been saving them for a rainy day, but knew that Hermione not only needed the sugar and the caffeine, but the chocolate in itself. So, wistfully, she brought the box to Hermione. "Eat," Morrigan ordered.

Hermione began to eat mindlessly, putting one in her mouth, chewing slowly, then swallowing, and would mechanically pick up another. Morrigan watched her despondently. Hopefully Hermione would get out of this soon, or else Morrigan would go insane from fixing her potion _and _trying to help Hermione.

"Morrigan?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, Hermione."

"I missed you," Hermione whispered, just loud enough to hear.

"I missed you, too, Hermione," Morrigan said. Hermione didn't ask her what she meant.

* * *

Two days later, at twelve of the clock, noon, there was a knock on the door. Morrigan went to answer it. She was dressed in her best red robes, her hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail. She was rather nervous meeting Hermione's parents. It had been a long time since she'd had personal contact with Muggles, and she wasn't entirely sure what to expect.

Morrigan opened the door and viewed Hermione's parents with a nervous disease. Hermione's mother had the same brown, curly hair and brown eyes, while Mr. Granger's facial shape and nose were more reminiscent to Hermione's. "Hi, Mrs. and Mr. Granger," Morrigan greeted. "I'm Morrigan." She held her hand out to Mrs. Granger, who shook it daintily. Morrigan shook Mr. Granger's hand briefly, as well, surprised by the strong grip. "I'm going to warn you, your daughter's been through…a lot. She's quite ill at the moment. She will get better, though, I promise." Morrigan led the way through the apartment to Hermione's room.

The television had been moved into Hermione's bedroom, where Hermione laid on her stomach on the bed in pajamas watching old Fawlty Towers episodes, laughing quietly to herself. Due to good food and better rest, Hermione had gained a bit of color. Her dreams were terrible and Morrigan found herself giving Hermione several different potions to chase away the nightmares.

Both of the Granger parents sat down on the bed, forgetting Morrigan's presence in light of their daughter's haggard appearance. Morrigan watched for a moment, rocking on the balls of her heals, before saying a quiet good-bye and leaving. She made a cold lunch and lemonade and put them in the refrigerator. She wrote a note and put it on the cupboard where the Grangers would see it, then left for St. Mungo's, grabbing her potion on the way out.

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy. Would you please drink your potion?"

Lucius seemed to be actually making progress in one area—he began to take the potion when she asked him to. Surely this was some indication that a bit of his memory was coming back, she thought. However, she couldn't truly consider it any real progress, due to the triviality of the advancement.

Lucius drank from the vial and went back to coloring. Morrigan watched his face contort slightly and then he turned to look at her. "Who are you?" he asked, looking at her politely. Morrigan, who was used to this routine, answered him truthfully.

"Morrigan, Mr. Malfoy. Morrigan Flaherty."

"Flaherty? Are you related to Ciaran Flaherty, by chance?"

"He was my father."

"Ah, good man, Flaherty. Had him for dinner last week, you see. Have you met my son Draco?"

Morrigan's heart clenched, and she gulped. "Yes, sir, I have."

"A very strapping boy, is he not? He will not follow in his father's footsteps, do not doubt that."

"No, sir."

"No, I'm waiting for the opportune moment to move to America. He won't find us there." Morrigan didn't need to ask who "he" was. "He won't ever find us. We shall assume different names, and pose as rich American bankers. No one will ever suspect."

"No, sir."

"Do you know my son Draco?"

Morrigan wished he would stop asking. "Yes, sir."

"Good boy. Looks very much like his mother. Many think he has my eyes. No, those eyes are his mother's. He will grow into them."

"Of course." Morrigan's throat constricted. This had happened so many times, and yet every time she wanted to cry. This must be some sort of repeat of past thoughts and actions. She had no doubt that Lucius had invited her father to dinner, or that he had wanted to desert Death Eater ranks. As "faithful" as he had been to the Dark Lord over the years, Lucius probably couldn't help but sigh in relief when he heard that his Master was gone, possibly for good. In fact, Morrigan might go as far as to guess that he had been actually planning an escape when he had heard of the Dark Lord's disappearance. From what she had heard of Mr. Malfoy, he was a leader, not a follower, and obeying orders from anyone didn't really suit him. Only the most obeisant rose in the ranks of the Dark Lord. Although Lucius' ambitious mind had allowed him to suffer a great bit of humility, the name of Malfoy would rise and he would be forced to act on nature occasionally.

"My wife is, of course, quite supportive of our Draco's education. His name has been down for Hogwarts since birth. Do you attend Hogwarts?" Lucius asked shrewdly, appraising Morrigan's distant expression.

"No, sir."

"Where, then, did you attend, girl?"

"I attended Dirving, sir," she said, her eyes remote.

"Dirving is a fine school, although with a bit of a nasty reputation. Only school brave enough to concentrate on anything important."

"Yes, sir." Morrigan was barely paying attention.

"Was your experience pleasant with Dirving?"

"Quite," Morrigan intoned.

Lucius continued to ramble, but Morrigan wasn't listening. He wasn't saying anything interesting, or of any import. Her eyes found the corner where Alice Longbottom was sitting, rolling a large ball of chewed Drooble's in her hands. Morrigan could almost imagine that she had once been beautiful, or at least pleasant. Alice's face was gaunt and haggard, now, her expression vacant. Sometimes she felt incomprehensible shame, simply by looking at the Longbottoms. She had once done that to people. She had been looking at the list of past patients who had died while in the ward and had come across a few names that she had recognized. _Amora Thomson. _Morrigan had herself put Amora to the wand, while Bellatrix had tortured Alfred, Amora's husband. Amora had _died _here, after living the rest of a hollow existence, devoid of meaning or comprehension.

It was like trying to complete a procrastinated project before the deadline, knowing that there was no time to actually finish it. Morrigan had waited too long in her life and had precluded herself so often that she didn't have enough time before she died to make up for all evil deeds she had committed before her twentieth birthday. Imagine, seventy more years to make up for nineteen years of evil—which encompassed murder, torture, and malice. It was impossible.

"Please sign in, Mr. Longbottom," a voice said from the entrance. Morrigan turned and saw that the boy, Alice and Frank's son Neville, was visiting today.

_Perfect_, Morrigan thought. _Because I needed to add more to my moral anguish._

Neville passed by Morrigan, glancing at her briefly, then looking away. _It must be humiliating_, she thought. Even worse, to live his entire life being more of a parent to Alice and Frank than they had ever been must have been painful. Morrigan had endured a similar experience, but unlike Neville, she had taken the easier path. Blame the world; leave the responsibility at someone else's feet, such as Muggles she'd never met—that was her policy. Morrigan bit back tears. This was ridiculous. Hermione's return must have triggered some sort of emotional disturbance.

_Enough_, Morrigan thought. She sat back and watched Lucius go through the familiar stages, until at the end of twenty minutes, his memory began to fade and he stopped talking about his family and their accomplishments. And then there was silence. Morrigan couldn't tell if she liked this or not. His babble had been irritating, but sincere and sweet. Morrigan stood to leave, picking up her cloak, her eyes searching Neville out. She could tell that he was trying hard not to cry. He watched his mother babble and tried to keep the gum out of her hair.

She couldn't stay silent any longer.

Morrigan approached Neville, coming to a stop beside his chair. He ignored her for a moment, then looked up at her, unspeaking.

"Hello, I'm Morrigan Flaherty. I've seen you in here a few times, but we'd never really met, so I thought I would introduce myself." She held out a hand, which Neville shook hesitantly.

"I'm Neville Longbottom."

Morrigan beamed at him, but couldn't think of anything to say. There was an awkward pause. "I'm working on a remedial potion for Mr. Malfoy," she informed him, jerking a thumb toward Lucius. "It's sort of a part-time job, you know. Until I can find another job." _Until the war is finished_, she added to herself.

Neville nodded.

"Can I—this is going to sound strange, since we just met—but would you maybe like to go somewhere to eat after this?" Morrigan stopped awkwardly. _That sounded _awful_, _she thought. _As if I thought he didn't really care too much about his parents_. "I mean, I just thought that…er, well, you don't make a new friend every day, and I would treat." _Oh lord, he probably thinks I'm attracted to him or something, now, _she thought, wincing.

"Uh, sure. I'll meet you down in the lobby in about ten minutes," Neville said uncertainly.

"See you then," Morrigan said, waving, and then exited. In the hallway, the realization finally hit her. _Why the hell did I just ask him to eat? _she wondered, and answered the question just as soon as she had finished asking it: _Because any little thing you can do to help anyone is worth it, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you._

She waited in the lobby for Neville, thumbing through a new _Witch Weekly_. As she had predicted, it was insipid and full of useless tips, stories, and articles. She dumped it unceremoniously back onto the magazine rack, then crossed her arms over her chest. Someone tapped on her shoulder, and she turned to see Neville, wearing a nervous expression. She smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, but she couldn't really tell—she hadn't gotten the right expressions down yet.

"Where d' you want to go?" she asked Neville, dropping her arms to her waist. She was concentrating on positive postures.

"Your treat, your choice," Neville said with a shrug and stuck his hands in his robe pockets.

"Very well, then, the Leaky Cauldron."

They both Apparated to the Apparition point in the Leaky Cauldron, then sought out a seat. Apparently Thursdays were very busy. They ordered, and then lapsed into an awkward silence.

"I'm sorry about your parents," Morrigan started uncomfortably. "I sort of know how you feel. Neither of my parents are, er, capacitated," she finished, hating the stiffness of her voice. _Capacitated_? _Ugh_, she thought. I'm terrible at this "new friend" thing. Without someone to introduce her, it was a bit tougher than she had anticipated.

"Oh yeah?" Neville asked with feigned interest. Neither was fooled.

"Yeah. My father disappeared and my mum was murdered. I…well, my father was under the employ of the Dark Lord."

Neville raised an eyebrow at her choice of words.

_Shit, _she thought. She had tried to make it a habit of calling Voldemort "You-Know-Who" or "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," but was failing miserably, having always thought of him as the "Dark Lord." _Explain it off, lie, or forget about it? _she wondered. _Forget about it_, she told herself. _Better not freak him out._

"So, what do you do, Neville?" she asked him nervously.

"I'm a desk clerk," he told her, shrugging. "Doesn't pay well, but I'm still living off the money my Gran left me."

"Did you lose her recently?" Morrigan asked sympathetically. His grandmother most likely had raised him.

"Yeah. Last year, actually."

"I'm sorry," Morrigan said, feeling stupider for every "I'm sorry" she was forced to express.

"Well, she was getting on in years, you know." Neville sounded embarrassed, too.

"So, what do you usually do in your job?"

"I file records for Azkaban. Usually this involves financial and prisoner records."

"Is there any sort of training that's required for the office?" Morrigan inquired, thankful for a safer subject.

"Basic Hogwarts education, business training, the like," Neville told her. "What were you planning to do? Healing?"

"Oh, no, not Healing. Right now I'm just administering the antidotes for the medical company until I figure out what I'd really like to do. I'm considering a few things, but I've not narrowed it down."

"Such as?"

"Well, maybe teaching, I suppose, or maybe I could try for Auror. Actually, I'm really interested in sentient magical beings. I did quite a bit of study on vampires and werewolves when I was in school, just out of interest. I think it'll be necessary, after the war, for the Ministry to positively correspond with them, if we win, that is. Just think, without someone bribing them with their necessities, we could win them over with genuine means."

"But what if they don't want to be won over?" Neville asked her, taking a sip of butterbeer.

"That's just the thing, isn't it? Finding a way to win them over, no matter what."

"Very true. You sound like you're committed to the job. You're definitely sincere enough."

"Thanks," Morrigan said smiling lightly.

The waiter brought their food, then, and they settled into their meal quietly. Morrigan had ordered the minestrone, while lamb was Neville's meal of choice. Morrigan felt a bit more comfortable with Neville, knowing that she was probably doing a good deed, just by showing an interest and befriending him. She hoped he wouldn't get any romantic ideas, since she had no romantic intentions for him.

They finished the evening with casual chitchat, staying away from dangerous subjects. At one point, Morrigan mentioned her roommate, Hermione Granger.

"Oh," Neville said in surprise, "You're closely acquainted with Hermione?"

"Yes, are you?"

"We were rather close friends in school. You're close with Ron and Harry, as well, then?"

"Er, no. We're on…rather distant, but friendly, terms. Hermione and Draco introduced them to me."

"_Draco Malfoy_?" Neville asked incredulously. "You're on first-name terms with both Hermione _and _Malfoy?"

"Yes, why does this shock you?" Morrigan asked, cocking her head to the side.

"They _hated _each other in school," Neville laughed. "How could you not know that?"

"I suppose because they were friends before we befriended each other."

"Heh, that surprises me," Neville said. He looked at his watch. "Sorry, I have to go home. It's rather late, you know."

Morrigan looked at her watch, as well. "Oh, yes." She reached a hand across the table, shaking Neville's warmly. "It was nice to meet you, Neville. Owl me sometime. I really enjoyed myself."

"Yeah, me, too," Neville said, smiling.

They waved good-bye, then Neville Apparated away. Morrigan stayed only long enough to pay and leave a tip.


End file.
